Doctor Sky
by Elisabeth Fox
Summary: People are disappearing and dying in and around London. And not just ordinary but very successful or intelligent people. Sherlock decides to find out who stands behind these murders. Jim Moriarty is tired of hiding from Mycroft so he decides to track down the perpetrator on his own. Both, however, soon find out that capturing the murderer's attention is a bad idea. After S4
1. Strange Case

**Chapter 1: Strange Case**

The room spun in dizzying circles. Crisp white ceiling lamps were burning his already red-rimmed eyes and tears were drying on his hot sweaty cheeks. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he felt it lazily sliding down his spine and absorbing into the blue boxers he was wearing.

His head pounded and he just stared ahead, trying to discern jerkily moving figure right in front of him. He felt as if someone poured acid down his throat and water into his lungs - breathing was nearly impossible at this point.

Rapid beeping suddenly caught his attention, but it quickly returned to the jumping man in front of him. His feet felt heavy and every step was accompanied by excruciating pain of his entire exhausted body.

In some distant part of his brain he realized that there was a huge mirror in front of him. It stretched from floor to the ceiling and to both sides of the white room.

And that moving figure was his reflection.

He just could not run anymore.

His left foot tripped on the surface of the treadmill and both legs suddenly buckled beneath him. He could feel something crunch in his ankle. He yelled as a shooting pain went up through the whole leg, then he was falling face toward to the ground. Just before his head met the floor, some sort of rope tightened around his neck and he immediately began to choke. He hoarsely gasped and quickly tried to stand up to relieve the pressure on his windpipe, but the broken ankle would not let him.

The treadmill beneath him slowly stopped and that allowed him to move forward and somehow reduce the pressure so that the rope was not strangling him. The door on his right-hand side suddenly burst open and a group of three people in a pale blue scrubs walked in.

One of those people stepped to him and roughly grabbed him by his injured ankle. He yelped in pain and tried to push away whoever was holding it. But he soon realized that his hands were also tied by a short chain that was attached to a belt strapped around his waist, so he remained lying down and tried to catch his breath.

"Broken."

He tried to focus on the person at his side who kept painfully probing the broken ankle. According to the voice he judged that it was a woman. She was wearing some kind of a white scrub cap and half of her face was covered by a surgical mask.

"Get rid of it," a cold voice said behind him.

Before he could process what was happening a second person approached him with something shiny in his hand.

Sharp pain in the neck was the last thing he felt before the world went black.

The constant beeping turned into a terrifying scream.

* * *

John licked his fingers and turned the next page of the newspapers, which laid opened on his lap. He raised a teacup with his other hand and sipped the hot liquid. The clock was ticking quietly in the background.

Sherlock suddenly rose from his chair and shouted: "Arsenic!"

John looked up with a start and spilled the tea all over the newspapers and his favourite beige sweater.

"Shit, Sherlock," he muttered, trying to wipe the rapidly cooling tea from his chest and safe at least a part of the newspapers. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the man standing in front of him.

"Well?"

"Of course it was arsenic! Oh! How could I have missed such easy clues?" Sherlock continued, now quickly pacing back and forth.

"How could it be arsenic, the man died of cardiac arrest after all," John said bitterly. With another sigh he rose from his chair and took off the wet sweater. "And the pathologist would have found it in the blood."

"Of course, but why would be anyone looking for a poison in the blood in case of death from heart attack? Especially if it's been administered in small amounts for a long period of time - hence the offender could had stopped the poisoning long ago and there might not have been even a trace of arsenic in the blood at the moment of death!"

"Sherlock this is ridiculous."

"It is not - listen! High dose of this poison kills you almost immediately. Unpleasant death. However, persistent symptoms of overexposure to the arsenic are: eczema - which Mr Caras did have, by the way; also abdominal pain, diarrhoea, cancer and my favourite - heart problems! And what more - one of the side effects causes the so-called night blindness, which now explains the bruising on his shins! He kept bumping repeatedly into the furniture in the evening!" Sherlock replied in one breath, widely gesturing around himself.

"And who could had been giving him the poison for such a long time?" The second man frowned while examining the damp tea stains on his shirt.

"His wife, of course," Sherlock smiled knowingly. He steepled his fingers under his chin and sat back in the chair, clearly savouring the moment.

"Case solved! What else do we have there, John?"

"Wait, wait, wait!" John waved his hand dismissively. "I do not understand. Why would have his wife killed him?"

"Mr Caras had decent life insurance. She put the poison into his morning tea when she was preparing him breakfast. What else do we have John?" Sherlock replied dryly.

John just rolled his eyes and decided to ignore the other man. Shaking his head he went into his bedroom to change clothes and to check hopefully still sleeping Rosamund.

But before he could cross the threshold to the bedroom, there was a loud banging on the door of their apartment.

"Come in!" Sherlock exclaimed cheerfully.

Panting Lestrade walked into the apartment. He was holding a folder in one hand and before he could say anything, Sherlock snatched it and opened it. His eyes immediately began to scan the text.

"Good to see you too, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted him.

"Oh, Greg! I would not expect you here this late afternoon. What brings you to us this time? "John said conversationally, but there was a slight sarcasm in his tone of voice.

"Nothing pleasant, I'm afraid. We have had this case on table for years. But we never joined the murders together. Until now. Media are on my heels and government wants at least something. The problem is that I have nothing. Just nothing," Lestrade complained.

"Wh-what? What are you talking about?" John stuttered clearly bewildered. He walked to the chair in which Sherlock was sitting - totally immersed in the file, and peered over his shoulder.

"These murders are certainly connected! How could have you missed all these details, like -"

"Yes, I know Sherlock! That's why I've came to you! It seems that it's much more connected than we initially thought," Greg said angrily. With a sigh, he sat in the chair that John left a moment ago. "And I just don't know what to do."

"Serial killer," Sherlock muttered while swiftly turning the pages of the file.

"It occurred to me too, but the killings have no clear signs of a serial killer. It is complicated and it has escalated incredibly during the last few months. Sherlock, I-"

"I take the case!"

* * *

Jim Moriarty raised his eyes from the display of his phone and looked hatefully at the back of head of the driver sitting in front of him behind the wheel.

"Brake - gas is the only style of driving you know?!" he snapped irritated, then with a loud sigh wiped out the last few lines of a secret code and started writing it again and correctly this time.

"I'm sorry, sir," the driver muttered nervously and squeezed the steering wheel with his fingers.

Jim continued sending orders via coded text messages, which were then sent to hidden numbers all around the world. Each code was unique and only the recipient could properly read it and understand the order.

Since his faked suicide on the roof of the St. Bart's Hospital he has taken a great care that no one could find out that he is still alive. His network was completely reformed – almost brand new. This time, however, everyone operated in total secrecy. Nobody had a clue that the threads of the network must first have been eaten by the spider himself to create a new network - stronger and more complex.

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly at the memory of Sherlock's terrified expression when he shoved a pistol into his mouth. _If he only knew!_

He rearranged the belt, which kept uncomfortably cutting into his neck and looked out of the window for a moment. Houses, streets and trees were darting outside and here and there he saw a palm tree or a cactus. It was the beginning of February, so it was still a little cold outside. At least the sky was bright blue - almost as blue as Sherlock's eyes.

Spain was beautiful in every season. He was always a little inwardly pleased that he had to personally fly down here to deal with some urgent business.

Such as this huge supply of drugs from Morocco.

This time it was necessary to bribe a particularly large number of customs officers and policemen and God knows who else. This was always the hard part of his business - the bribing. Sometimes he wished that people would be much easier to control and that they would fulfil his every command just like that! To have an army of brainwashed soldiers. _Wonderful idea!_

Jim shuddered momentarily at the thought of Euros.

She had a talent for controlling people - that has to be acknowledged. She convinced even him that Sherlock, his cronies and his brother must be put to the test and if they survive, it would internally tear them to pieces. _Burn their hearts out._

Of course it did not work. It was too complicated, half-baked, too emotional, and Jim could not have intervene at any moment once the thing started.

One thought lifted his mood a little bit – that even this super-genius woman couldn't have seen through his trick.

The cell phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the sender with a small frown. Sebastian and his reports from England. Always on time.

He pressed a button that was at the door to his left, which ejected a soundproof barrier between him and the driver and created a bit of privacy for Jim.

With just a few clicks, he speed-dialled Sebastian's number and waited for the report.

"Can I start, boss?" A voice came from the other end. Jim rolled his eyes.

"Of course you can. Otherwise I would not call you, silly."

Seb took a deep breath and began.

"According to the latest reports from our source, Mycroft doesn't have the slightest idea that you're alive. Euros is still mute. Sherlock and John are spending lately a lot of time on Baker Street solving simple cases. Not one of our "accidents" has caught their attention, so far. It seems that the team covering the tracks worked perfectly again."

Jim – a little bored already - started examining his fingernails on his right hand. These reports were really becoming a boring daily routine.

"And…?"

"Otherwise, all the operations that are currently taking place in London and across whole Britain are running smoothly without any errors. Uh ..." the voice on the phone chocked. "There is actually one small problem."

Jim cleared his throat and looked out the window. His bored eyes leaped from building to building as they were passing along the road.

After his long silence, Sebastian coughed a little and nervously continued.

"One of our friends - mob boss Nikolai Pivovarov - disappeared."

"What do you mean, disappeared? Someone got rid of him?" James muttered wearily.

"According to my sources, he just ... well ... disappeared from his house," the sniper stammered, he paused for a moment and then began to speak again.

"You know how people are disappearing lately. Recently, their numbers significantly increased. And it's not our job, nor anyone we know. It's a mystery. "

Jim snorted. "Nothing is a mystery Seb, everything has a cause. And why should I care? Contact anyone who has replaced him and explain to him how things are. Something else?"

"You don't care what's happening to those people who disappeared from Britain and from the continent? Sometimes they find the body, but the police has no idea who does that. And I know that first-hand, boss. I think it's worth looking into," Sebastian exclaimed resolutely.

"Boooring," Jim said melodiously.

Seb knew that there was only one thing that could change his mind.

"Sherlock took the case."

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds.

"Send me the details about all individual cases," the second man said flatly and then hung up without saying anything more.

Sebastian smiled to himself.


	2. Something's wrong

Chapter 2 **\- Something's wrong**

"All the people that disappeared are usually either very intelligent or talented. It's almost as if somebody was trying to get rid of the fittest of us, "John mumbled as he was looking into one of the folders Lestrade had brought.

Sherlock made a sour face. "Well, not exactly."

"Okay, Sherlock. Enlighten me," John said and leaned back in his chair. Greg had left some time ago and they had been left alone. A loud clanging of some pots could be heard from the flat below. Mrs Hudson probably finished preparing dinner.

"I do not think that whoever does that has actually planned to kill those people," Sherlock mused. "Just given the length of the time he kept them alive after he'd kidnapped them."

"So you think he wants to ... what - torture them?"

Sherlock pondered for a second. "No, no that is not his main goal. Let's look at this case, for example: _Professor of Applied Physics Phil Downson found dead in the premises of the university campus just three months after his disappearance from his office at Imperial College London._ He was emaciated, he had been probably starving for some time. He bore signs of violent treatment – he had partially healed black eye, one front tooth had been knocked out and two of his lower teeth were chipped. The nails on his right leg were at some point completely torn out, but they later began to grow, so I guess that this had happened in the beginning of his time spent in captivity. There is also one thing that all the victims share - these bruises and abrasions after some handcuffs on both wrists, as well as on ankles and neck. What our killer had intended with him was certainly not just simple torture. He probably tried to blackmail him somehow ... maybe all the victims have something else in common other than just their intellect or talent. Maybe they knew something."

John scratched his head. "So we have to find some other thing they all have in common."

Sherlock just nodded silently, already lost in thought. John took a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. His roommate has not touched his dinner yet.

When he tried to sweep some crumbs off the folder that was lying open on his lap, he stopped and blurted out: "They're all rich. Sherlock - all of these abductees had a lot of money!"

"Their accounts remain perfectly intact. Not even a pound disappeared," Sherlock replied dismissively. "No. Money - that is only a side product of his work. Our man is not interested in money. Not really."

"Well, we could use some of those sometimes ..." John muttered under his breath. Sherlock glanced at him for a moment, looking offended. John pretended not to notice.

"The cause of death is always the same - cardiac arrest. Phenobarbital was found in the victims' blood. In some US states, this substance is still used to kill prisoners who were sentenced to death. Shortly speaking, this means that-"

"You fall asleep and never wake up," Sherlock finished for him. Both were sitting in silence, when suddenly Sherlock jumped from his chair, took his mobile phone and wallet and ran out the door. He stopped on the threshold and turned to his confused friend.

"They found a new body the day before yesterday. I want to see him so I am going to the morgue." He paused and then added, somewhat unsteadily: "You're going too, right?"

"What a question!" John said with a smile quickly rising to his feet.

"Wait, what about Rosie?"

"She is with my mother. She took her right after Greg had left. "

"Lestrade is no longer here?" Sherlock asked surprised, then looked confusedly around the apartment, to which John just rolled his eyes and walked through the door.

* * *

Molly couldn't tell she was surprised when Sherlock erupted through the door of the morgue with John in tow and without greeting demanded to see the body of the deceased athlete.

"I wondered when you would show up here," Molly said, a little annoyed.

"Sure, Molly. Now the body, please!" Sherlock exclaimed eagerly.

John looked apologetically at Molly. "It really would have helped us if we knew about the body as much as possible."

Molly went to one of the freezers, opened it and pulled out the dead man. She unzipped the black bag and began talking.

"Mr Kazah was found two days ago in a gutter near the municipal park about 10 miles away from London. His left ankle had been broken shortly before his death – I've done X-rays - look," Molly paused to get her X-ray photo out of the folder. "There - you see? Comminuted fracture, which had not even had any chance to heal, the ankle is not swollen, so it had to happen literally minutes before his death. Which was incidentally caused by injection of high dose of pentobarbital into the carotid artery. The substance was also found in his blood. The injection site is clearly visible right here."

Sherlock kept walking around the body and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. When Molly paused, he stopped.

"He was obviously a supreme athlete, due to the building of his muscles and his generally trained physique."

John laughed and looked at Sherlock with disbelief. "Well, of course. Indeed, this year he won a gold medal in triathlon. It was in the newspapers and everywhere, on television ... what – are you telling me you've never heard of him?!"

Molly managed a little shaky laugh and turned her attention also to the other man, who was now looking a little taken aback.

His cell phone vibrated and that gave him a chance to escape this embarrassing situation. He pulled it out of his coat pocket, but when he looked at the display, he snorted - clearly irritated. Of course that his brother already knew everything.

"Mycroft?" John asked quietly.

"My brother never misses a thing."

"What does he say?"

"Nothing important. Let's go back to Mr Kazah," Sherlock said evasively and put the phone back into his pocket. He took a deep breath and then leaned a little closer to examine the abrasions and bruises around the death man's wrists. They seemed to have been caused by a specific type of handcuffs which shouldn't have been able to cause such wounds. Medical restraints were widely used to tie the mentally unstable patients to bed and were therefore lined with soft cloth that should have prevented such bruising.

But it seemed that his arms and legs were tightly tied and the restraints had never been taken off.

Sherlock carefully turned the man's hand to look at the inside of his wrist. Around the wrist was a dark line of bruising from the handcuffs. Sherlock noticed, that apart from these obvious wounds and bruises and the broken ankle, Mr Kazah didn't have any other marks on his body. Besides the small puncture wound on his neck, of course.

Why would anyone kill someone he'd been apparently holding for some time and with whom he had plans? Because his ankle got broken? Is this some kind of weird human trafficking? Did the captor get rid of him, because the 'goods' had been broken?

But what about other cases? All of them share the same characteristics. Some special person is kidnapped, held captive for some time, often tortured and then executed. And later the body ends up thrown away somewhere in the suburbs of London.

It was obviously some kind of a collector. Someone who liked to play with people.

"What kind of heartless monster can do this," Molly murmured. The sound of her voice snapped Sherlock back to reality.

"There must be more people involved. It is not possible for only one person to handle all this," Sherlock replied promptly. He pulled out his pocket magnifier and started studying the face of the dead man. He noticed minor bruising from a respiratory mask around his nose and mouth.

"When had Mr Kazah had his last medical examination before he was kidnapped?" he asked Molly. She immediately began rummaging through the folder and after a while she said: "About two months ago – he had an examination to measure the oxygen saturation of his blood during exercise, and it was excellent," Molly paused and turned few more pages. "There were no traces of steroids or drugs in his blood either."

"And there are steroids in his blood now?" John frowned.

"Y-yes, a lot. All kinds of drugs - most of them illegal in this country."

"Interesting," Sherlock whispered to himself.

"At least seven?" John laughed. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye and grinned.

"This is at least eight, John! We haven't got so beautifully complicated case since-"

"Moriarty," John finished for him. He looked sour at the thought of that short Irishman. Well, at least he was already six feet under.

They all could feel the strained silence for a moment. Molly glanced at the watch on her left wrist and wearily rubbed her forehead.

"Sherlock, it's really late and I would like to go, you know, home."

"But of course, Molly, go and enjoy your date!" Sherlock exclaimed with his nose still buried in a file. John smiled a little and wished her luck.

"I don't even ask anymore," Molly sighed, flushing with embarrassment. Then she grabbed her things and left without another word.

* * *

Jim was sitting in his chair, sipping tea and flipping through a folder which contained the deaths of all the known victims from the Sherlock's new case.

Before he arrived to his flat in London, he had gone to his office, where he had found on his desk all materials relating to these abductions of people, which had recently sharply increased.

Yes, someone liked to kidnap and play with people. It was quite inconvenient that Jim had no idea, who was doing that. And he was really good because until now, he had completely managed to avoid his criminal network. Someone like that might be an interesting ally.

His eyes began drooping a few minutes ago. He rubbed them with his hand and took another sip of the black tea. He settled deeper into the chair and stifled another yawn.

This was overall a very interesting case and Jim was confident that Sherlock would eventually solve it. So why should he intervene in any way, if it did not concern him directly? Everybody should mind their own business – and Sebastian already knew that.

He himself had been having some trouble with his network recently - it was still new after all, even though it had already reached its original size, it was still necessary to fix some problems here and there. Unfortunately, he had to do it personally most of the time.

Therefore, most of his days consisted of traveling around London, England and throughout Europe - meeting with various clients and allies under a false identity. It would be very dangerous to fly under his real name so he used false documents when travelling. He had many aliases - such as: James Morley, James Dahmer, James Shawcross and many others. His face might still have been familiar to many people and he didn't like to show up in public unless it was necessary. Especially now - when Mycroft started snooping around his net. Another issue that worried him deeply.

He took a deep breath and turned another page.

Whoever was doing it had a talent. Always perfectly hid all traces and was placing the bodies randomly around London. The link between those kidnappings and murders, however, was quite striking. He did not understand how Lestrade couldn't have linked that sooner. The police were incredibly stupid.

The case was certainly very interesting but it wasn't his priority now to chase this freak down. He would let him do what he wanted as long as he stayed out of his business.

He closed the folder on his lap with finality and threw it on a table beside him. He took another sip of his tea but meanwhile it had gotten cold. Disgusted, he immediately put it right next to the file. Raising his arms above his head he stretched, then he pulled a cell phone from his pocket to find out what time it was. The screen showed him 2:36 in the morning and just under that he saw 28 new messages.

Stiffly - not without difficulty - he rose from his chair. He would deal with it in the morning.

He went to the bedroom to change clothes and then, finally, go to bed. He barely paid any attention to his surroundings as he was walking up the stairs. But one thing stopped him cold. He wasn't sure whether it was his sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on him, but he was convinced that the short white hair lying on the stairs right in front of his eyes did not belong to him.

He bent down and with two fingers gently lifted it to take a better look. The white hair glistened in the glow of the chandelier. He narrowed his eyes and looked around with uncertainty. The clock in the hall was quietly ticking and he could heard the humming noise of the refrigerator in the kitchen, but otherwise the entire apartment was completely silent.

He came into his bedroom, pulled a handkerchief out of a drawer, wrapped the hair in it and put it on the nightstand. Surely everything would make sense in the morning. It was probably nothing. Maybe the cleaning lady who came here once a week to clean up and water the flowers, left it here.

When he finally climbed into his bed he still felt his subconscious screaming at him that something was very wrong.


	3. Secrets

Chapter 3 **-** **Secrets**

A week passed since the last murder and Sherlock was not one bit closer to finding out who was behind them.

He was angrily pacing back and forth in his apartment, occasionally stopping to sit in the chair or to pick up a violin to try to clear his head a little. But in reality, it was impossible to interview the witnesses because the relatives of all the victims claimed to have no idea how had their loved ones been abducted. They heard nothing, saw nothing and in the house or an apartment was found nothing suspicious. Everything indicated that the victims had actually really vanished without any trace.

He felt annoyed when he received a message on his cell phone.

What had frustrated him most – and still did – was his brother constantly being on his heels. Every day he received his text messages in which he was asking how the case had progressed. He did not answer him, not even to one of his texts and did not mean to. However, when he got shortly after the first message a second one and then a third one, his curiosity won out over his pride.

 _I know you won't answer - but how far did you get with the case?_ _MH_

 _I'm standing behind the door._ _MH_

 _Sherlock, open the door!_ _MH_

He threw the phone on a couch and angrily walked over to the front door and opened it. Just behind them was standing Mycroft with an umbrella in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

"Good to see you again, brother," he said.

"Likewise," Sherlock muttered, immediately irritated, and let his brother to come inside.

Mycroft entered the apartment with obvious distaste, briefly looking around, he walked over to a chair in front of the fireplace and gingerly sat down. Meanwhile, Sherlock started to boil some water and prepared two tea cups. There was a silence for a while during which they fiddled with their phones and waited for the water to boil. Then Sherlock gave his brother one of the cups and sat opposite him.

"So how's the case going?"

"You didn't really come here to ask me about this, did you?"

"I'm genuinely interested in this case. It seems that you haven't made much progress, if any at all - which bothers me," Mycroft muttered, blowing on his hot drink. His brother rolled his eyes, leaning back and crossing his legs.

"And what do you think I do all day?!"

Mycroft frowned, looking around. The apartment was in a terrible state. The floor was strewn with filthy clothes, the shelves were full of papers and dirty dishes - everywhere were cigarette butts and he could smell the overflowing garbage bin in the kitchen. Fortunately, he couldn't see it.

"I have no idea. Please enlighten me."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, not taking eyes off his brother. Of course Mycroft had come here only to provoke him. He decided not to answer. A moment of silence stretched between the two before the older brother broke it.

Mycroft sighed loudly and uncomfortably shifted in his chair.

"That's not the only reason I've come here," he said, hesitation in his voice.

"Then why are you here?"

"I have concerns about certain issues ... I don't know how to explain it."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"You're keeping something from me."

Again the other man shifted uncomfortably and turned his attention back to the teacup. He tapped his fingers on the fine china in his hand and licked his lips.

"We have reason to believe that the network of James Moriarty is active again," he stated coldly.

"Impossible. I completely destroyed it - Moriarty blew his brains out. We arrested a bunch of people, nothing was left!" Sherlock said angrily.

"That's not entirely true," responded his brother, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Spit it out!"

"Some cells of the old network - we left them intact ...to inform us about any suspicious activities. And ... something happened."

"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked exasperated. He abruptly rose to his feet, and began moving around the room, throwing irritated glances at his brother.

"A couple of weeks," Mycroft sighed because he knew an outburst was coming.

And he was right.

 _"A couple of_ weeks?! A couple of weeks, for Christ's sake! And you didn't tell me anything! Typical!" Sherlock snapped bitterly and threw up his arms in anger. Then he took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Mycroft looked up in surprise and met his brother's serious gaze.

"I want to hear everything, my dear brother, it concerns me as well!"

The older man nodded, slowly putting his half-empty cup on the small table beside him. He folded his arms and began.

"After Moriarty had committed suicide, we sent you on a mission to get rid of all his criminal cells which were abroad. And MI5 was tasked to destroy every existing cell in London. However, after much deliberation, we have decided that it would be better if one of the cells was left untouched. It has been completely inactive for several years, which also enabled us to get our people among his former agents. Over the past few weeks we have been getting information that this particular cell is trying to contact someone. And if the intelligence is correct, and I have no reason to believe otherwise - it is the network of James Moriarty."

"So the network is active again," Sherlock muttered in disbelief. "How is it possible? You said that without him there will be a power vacuum and struggle who will take over the network, resulting in a complete collapse!"

"I was wrong – someone must be in charge of it again."

Sherlock got up again and began pacing around the room. His brother was sitting with his head down and waiting for the storm to pass.

"His body was never found."

"Sherlock, James Moriarty is dead. Period, "Mycroft said firmly.

Sherlock paused, his arms folded across his chest. He couldn't help it as a surge of excitement filled him. Could it be possible that this new case was just some posthumous game of his? It was complicated enough. _I need to know more!_

"I want full access to all your records regarding this particular cell," Sherlock said resolutely, sitting down in the chair opposite his brother. Mycroft grimaced, but despite his reluctance, he nodded.

A moment later Mycroft came out of his brother's flat, got into a parked car and sat next to Anthea. Without any greetings he buckled his belt and calmly announced:

"Remove mentions of Magpie from WS12 mission records."

* * *

Elderly man was sitting quietly in his living room and intently studying a file full of papers, photos and information about his next project. He was smiling under his grey moustache and running his fingers over some of the pictures as if he wanted to remind himself of some good memories. His eyes reflected the glowing flames from a fireplace opposite him – they seemed to have greenish colour in the yellow light.

His reverie was interrupted by a gentle tap at the big wooden door. The man carefully closed the folder and placed it on the table beside him. Looking up, he exclaimed:

"Come in!"

A young tall man walked into the room. One of his sleeves was rolled up and he was trying to roll it back down. Wordlessly, he walked over to the man sitting on the couch and sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Do you have some news for me?" The older man asked.

"Nikolai told us everything he knew. I got rid of him, as you ordered," the second man said dryly. Then he noticed the folder lying on the table. He reached out his hand, took it and opened it. For a long time there was a silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper and the crackling fire.

"This is a really big fish. I cannot believe that has been eluding our attention for so long," he said after a while of browsing the folder.

The older man just nodded silently, the corners of his mouth still turned up in a slight smile.

"I want to learn about him as much as possible. He is incredibly fascinating and unique creature. I cannot wait to have him here with us," the man on the couch smiled even more.

"It won't take long now. Nikolai generously shared with us all the wonderful and useful information he had."

"Did you record his testimony?"

"Of course."

For a moment, there was silence again. Both men were immersed in their own thoughts.

"Do you think it will be easy to kidnap him?" The younger man asked suddenly.

"It was easy to get into his lair – we'll use the usual tranquilizers and sedatives - he won't have any time to call his back-up."

"When do you intend to do it?"

"Firstly I want to make sure that the detective does not get on the right track and only then can we bring our latest project in here," the older man said. Getting up from the couch, he walked over to the fireplace where he stood and stared into the flames.

"Prepare the cell for him. It won't take longer than a week."

* * *

Jim Moriarty was sitting in the hairdresser's chair - he had his hair cut every two weeks. Elderly man - obviously gay - was trimming it with professional finesse and Jim had to admit that he loved it when someone played with his hair. He was on his mobile phone - either handing out orders or playing games and surfing the internet.

Moriarty took great care over his appearance and truly cared what other people think about him. That's why he always wore only the most expensive clothing brands, used the most expensive cosmetic products and also visited the best hair salon in London, maybe even the whole country. Samuel – the hairdresser- of course knew who he was, and Jim paid him twice as much to keep quiet.

His cell phone vibrated indicating that he had a text message. Frowning, he glanced at the sender's name. It was one of his security agents. He usually wouldn't receive any messages from him unless it was an emergency. He quickly opened the message, and his breath caught in his throat as he read it.

 _Mycroft knows._

His heart was pounding in his chest and the cell phone almost slipped from his sweaty hand.

 _Mycroft knows?! How is that possible?_ Yes - Jim knew that MI5 was recently snooping on his operations, but he had no actual reason to really believe that the elder Holmes could get deep enough to find out about him.

"Is everything all right?" Samuel asked, puzzled by Jim's strange behaviour.

"Yep. Keep going," Jim said with feigned calmness and read the text message for a second time. Mycroft knowing completely changed the situation. Now he couldn't feel safe anywhere - it also meant he couldn't personally go and deal with issues as often as before when Holmes' agents were looking for him and knew they would find him if they really tried.

Quickly he wrote back asking him how he found out, and where the leak was. Right now, getting rid of the person who informed Holmes was his top priority. After a moment's thought, he decided that it must have been someone from his old network. The government probably bought him a long time ago - at a time he had been considered dead.

Jim rubbed his hand over his forehead, teeth _clenching_ so tightly _his jaw_ ached. Such a stupid mistake! He should have had his former people checked! People changed sides all the time. Of course, Mycroft had bought them! Or worse – he might have planted some of his agents among his own people.

Jim angrily sent another order. This time, he informed his sniper. Drastic times called for drastic measures. He used a series of codes which told Moran to get rid of the whole part of the network where was the leak. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Meanwhile, the hairdresser had finished and then helped him remove the apron. He brushed the hair off his shoulders - even though there were none. Jim always paid in advance by bank transfer, so he leaped from his chair as soon as possible, and almost ran out of the salon to the street where the driver was waiting for him in his car.

As he settled into the backseat, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was no longer safe for him to walk about in daylight. He could see his driver giving him curious glances in the rear-view mirror.

He gave him his coldest look. "Take me to my apartment."

"Yes sir."

The driver quickly started the car.


	4. Nice To Meet You

Chapter 4 - **Nice to meet you**

Jim was furious. How was it possible that Moran had not killed them all?! That they couldn't be traced, that he couldn't possibly get rid of so many Mycroft's people at once, it would arouse suspicion. Blah, blah, blah!

Jim angrily strode down the corridor leading to a conference room where he was to meet with the leaders of his network, with his most loyal ones. Well, at least he hoped so. Because who could be trusted at the moment? After he had learned about the leak from his own network two days ago, he could not decently sleep, eat or think. If the British government decided to get him, he would certainly end up either in the most secured jail in the country which was Sherrinford, together with Euros - Jim shuddered at this idea - or he would be killed, smoothly and quickly. Without witnesses. And because he was officially dead, they would not even have to deal with any paperwork regarding his death.

The most important thing now was to define the direction in which this whole thing would continue to unfold. Mycroft knew. There was nothing to be done about that. It was also important to take proper steps to ensure that his alleged survival would be proven false.

Moriarty threw open the glass doors leading to the meeting room. There were about twelve people sitting around a long polished table inside. All the chairs were occupied - except for one at the head of the table.

Everyone looked up in surprise as he entered. Jim wordlessly walked over to the empty chair and sat down. He readjusted his suit jacket, slowly put his phone on the table and glanced at everyone in anger. Then he smiled coldly and turned to Moran who was sitting at his right hand.

"Can you explain to me, Sebbie, why have I just received information that you've killed less than half of the people I ordered you to get rid of?"

Sebastian gulped but proudly continued facing the murderous gaze of his boss.

"It is not wise to get rid of everyone, especially when we know that there are Holmes' people. Right now, we have an advantage because Mycroft does not know that we know that he knows. "

Jim's eyes narrowed. He was the brains behind this all! Sebastian did the dirty work. He had no right to-

"Sir, if I may? I must agree with Moran. We can use this to misdirect them, feed them false information. It would be a shame to get rid of such advantage," a voice said behind Sebastian. Jim leaned forward for a better look. Of course it was Caxton - expert on politics. Who had to have a say in everything. Just like every politician.

"Do you have to have a say in everything, Caxie? Daddy will handle this himself," Jim said annoyed. But he had to admit they were right. He should really get some sleep because he would have come up with something like this long time ago. He let himself be controlled by his emotions which obscured his mind.

"Certainly, sir. I just think that we could turn this inconvenience in our favour," Caxton said, sounding more confident.

Jim squinted his eyes, then looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling and put his finger to his lips – truly a parody of intense thinking.

"That's all very nice, but can someone answer me one tiny little question that has plagued me for two days..."

Moriarty paused dramatically for a moment. And then he suddenly shouted:

"How is it POSSIBLE that you have not checked the agents we have not contacted for MORE THAN FOUR YEARS and when there was even a tiny chance that they might be COMPROMISED?!"

All his men flinched slightly and lowered their heads. When Moriarty started yelling - it was bad. Jim shot a glance at the red-haired man sitting at the end of the table.

"I'm talking to YOU, Wesley!" Saliva flew through the air and landed on the desk and on the faces of people sitting closest to Jim.

Small thin man with a balding head of slicked red hair crouched in his chair.

"S-sir, I suggested-"

Jim reddened even more and jumped out of his chair.

"You do not suggest, you give orders! I should shoot you, you incompetent moron!"

The atmosphere in the conference room was extremely tense. Then Jim slowly sat down, rubbing his face.

"I want a detailed report on what you propose to do in current situation and what is the best way to persuade Holmes that I'm still dead. I want it on my table by the end of the week," he murmured. He was leaning on one elbow, head in hand and eyes closed. He could feel fatigue slowly creeping up on him.

When nothing happened for a while, Jim raised his head and looked at them coolly.

"Well, off you go! Disappear from my sight."

Everyone abruptly got up and left their seats. They rushed to the door almost falling over each other.

Everyone except Sebastian who remained seated in his chair. He waited until everyone was out of the room and then turned to his boss. Jim quizzically raised an eyebrow at him.

"I wanted to talk to you in private."

"What, Tiger? Do you want to apologize for your incompetence?" Jim said with a tired smile. Sebastian sighed.

"I want you to get at least two bodyguards, who will accompany you from now on. I've been receiving information that there are some suspicious people around your apartment and office, and some of our agents are concerned."

"Are you saying that now Mycroft even knows where I live? What's next? What hair gel I use? What kind of breakfast cereal I eat?" Jim said irritably.

"I do not think those people are Holmes'," the second man said in a strained voice.

Jim looked up in surprise and searchingly gazed into Sebastian's blue eyes. His cold-blooded assassin was really worried. Strange.

"Who else would it be? Who else could possibly know that I'm alive?"

"I do not know. That makes it worse. I think it would be better if you got out of the country for a while. Just until the situation has calmed down," Sebastian said in a determined voice. Jim rubbed his eyes and grimaced.

"No, I can't, Sebbie. I have piles of work - there's this strange case and my network is not yet fully stable. You saw what just happened. It would have been impossible before."

"And what about the strange hair you brought me about a week ago hysterically waving it in front of my face and screaming that someone's been in your flat."

Jim frowned. "But we couldn't identify whose it was. I was exaggerating a bit. What- are you telling me that Holmes' agents have been there as well?"

"That's what we don't know. Footage from surveillance cameras did not show anything though," Moran said in a calm voice. "But really get those bodyguards. Something's rotten here."

* * *

John rubbed his face.

"It must be connected! Oh, John, I haven't been this excited for a long time. The game is on!" Sherlock said gleefully while flipping through the mission report from Mycroft.

"There is no evidence that he-"

"Nothing is coincidence! These murders – he is definitely behind them, I know it! He has somehow survived and now he wants to play again!"

John scratched his head and sighed. When Sherlock became utterly obsessed with something it was impossible to talk him out of it.

"You saw him blow his brains out. Listen, I'm telling you as a doctor. No one survives that."

"And you saw me jump off the roof of a hospital –he had to be prepared," the younger man muttered, pulling out another paper and putting it on the ground beside him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, surrounded by papers and photographs regarding Moriarty's former criminal cells.

John frowned. "It's just not possible. Sherlock, he's dead. Euros has confirmed it."

"Euros is not the brightest example of truthfulness."

"Even your brother, who is literally the British government, has confirmed it," John said.

"The same can be said about him," Sherlock replied with venom in his voice.

John cautiously walked around him so he could sit on the couch. Still critically watching his friend hunching over with nose to the floor.

"I think you wish him alive because you're bored. But that just does not change reality – in which he blew his brains out. They found a puddle of blood with pieces of tissue. Moriarty's DNA."

Sherlock said nothing.

"You should focus on the case with the London's Phantom," John added, after a moment.

"But I'm doing it! And I'm telling you - it is him, it's another game," the young man burst out, exasperated.

His cell phone buzzed when a new text message arrived. Sherlock quickly grabbed it and read it. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and headed to the door, much to John's surprise.

"Lestrade says that they have found another body. Nikolai Pivovarov – he disappeared about two weeks ago. They haven't searched the crime scene yet, so we have to hurry," Sherlock said enthusiastically.

"You're going in your dressing gown?!"

Sherlock looked at himself in surprise. He blushed a bit, and then silently walked into his bedroom where he changed his clothes.

After a while the two were sitting in a cab heading to the scene.

When they arrived, Sherlock immediately got out of the car, ducked under the police tape and approached the dead man lying near the mouth of a city sewer. Nikolai Pivovarov's body was in a terrible state – he was completely naked and almost every inch of his skin was covered with cuts, bruises, welts, dirt and scratches. His face was the worst - most of his front teeth had been completely knocked out, the jaw was obviously fractured in several places, his nose and his eyes were swollen so much that it was almost impossible to recognize that this was once a human face. His right ear had been cut off, a few fingers were missing and the remaining ones had barely any fingernails left. His left kneecap had been shattered and the other leg was definitely broken. In short - it was not a pretty sight.

The body was lying on its back in a shallow dirty water - which had probably washed away most of the evidence by now.

"Poor lad – well, he was a bastard, but I do not think that anyone deserves such a fate," Lestrade said, standing next to Sherlock and sipping his coffee.

"Oh my God! I have seen the dead and mangled soldiers who looked better than him, "John grimaced as he got a full view of the terrible scene.

"Who found him?" Sherlock asked after a moment and crouched next to Nicholai's head to get a better look at his face.

"A cyclist- an enthusiast training for some triathlon or something. He rode here at half past eight in the morning when he noticed him," Greg responded.

"Is he still here? Can I talk to him?"

Lestrade sighed. "No. We asked him some questions and then he rode away – apparently he has to work. He gave us his number if you-"

"No, that's fine. He probably did not tell you much anyway," Sherlock murmured, pulling on a latex glove. He slowly turned Nicholai's head to get a better look at his neck. No bruising after any rope or collar. He glanced at his wrist - there were dark bruises caused by handcuffs. Metal - no rope, no medical restrains. For some reason, this murder was different. But why?

"What did he look like?"

"Well - a tall, young man with-"

"Not the cyclist. Pivovarov. Before he was kidnapped," Sherlock asked irritably.

"I might have some photos in the database. I can send them to you later. He was a burly man - strong- really scary," Greg replied.

This meant that he had not lost almost any weight. Nor did he have symptoms of starvation.

Sherlock looked around. The whole scene had been obviously carefully chosen - the water from the sewer was heavily polluted and whole area was strewn with rubbish. It looked almost like illegal garbage dump. Which significantly impeded the search for clues.

Sherlock focused on the high withered grass nearby. Not a single straw was suspiciously broken or bent. In addition, the cops were carelessly walking around the body and the whole scene had been contaminated even before Sherlock arrived here.

"No traces of how the perpetrator got the body here or where he came from," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Well, he couldn't have carried him on his back, the poor man must weight like 300 pounds," John added.

"There aren't any fresh tire tracks at all, so how did the body get here?"

A light drizzle started to fall from the grey sky. Cops were running around, taking pictures of what they could and then they finally covered the body. Detective Inspector urged them to swiftly pack up all the evidence and samples and take the dead man away.

"Maybe the autopsy will tell us something," John said after a while, when he and Sherlock found themselves in a taxi riding back to Baker Street.

* * *

The next day Sherlock and John went to St. Bart's hospital to find out what had Nikolai's autopsy revealed. However, before they even managed to get close to the morgue, they ran into Molly Hooper in the hallway. Sherlock actually literally bumped into her.

"Oh! Molly, I'm sorry. I didn't expect to meet you here," Sherlock apologized, grabbing surprised Molly's shoulders.

"Sherlock, John, what-" the young woman mumbled, confused. Sherlock gently turned her around and led her back down the hallway toward the morgue.

"Yesterday they brought you the body of one Nikolai Pivovarov and it's very important that I know what have you found during the examination," the detective said, still leading the confused pathologist down the hall.

"But Sherlock, I-"

"Something's not right with this murder. I need to find at least one clue, something-"

As soon as the trio ran into the morgue, the two men stopped dead. In the middle of the room stood a tall man in a white coat, leaning over some body of a dead woman and sawing through her chest. When they flung the door open, he turned off the saw and looked up in surprise.

"Who's this?" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing to the older man.

"Sherlock, I did not carry out the autopsy. Scotland Yard has called a specialist who will take care of this case from now on," Molly replied with an uncertain smile.

The older man put down his saw and lifted a protective shield that has been concealing his face. "Oh! So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes! The detective in the funny hat-"

"It's not my hat!" The younger man snorted angrily.

John chuckled behind him.

"It is truly an honour to meet you," the man in white continued.

"So you carried out the autopsy of Nikolai Pivovarov?" Sherlock asked bluntly, stepping a little closer to the autopsy table.

"Yes, yes. Poor guy – the horror what he had to endure. Well, except for the pentobarbital in his blood I did not find anything that would bring us closer to the murderer, unfortunately," the older man said while slowly taking off both of his white latex gloves.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to see the body and an autopsy report."

"Sure, sure," the man in white replied cheerfully and walked over to one of the freezers.

"I think I missed your name, sir...?"

The man stopped and turned to Sherlock, a broad smile forming under his white moustache, his piercing blue eyes glinting in the sharp glare of hospital lights.

Then he put out his hand and said:

"Doctor Sky. Nice to meet you."


	5. Suprise

Chapter 5 - **Surprise**

Sherlock was a little hesitant when he reached to shake hands with the doctor. John introduced himself, allowing the detective to make a short deduction of this new person.

 _Man. Divorced / Single, about 55-60 years old, obviously upper class, passionately devoted to his job, very intelligent, cares about his appearance, confident, absent family, hiding something..._

A grinding sound of pulling the dead body out of the freezer box brought Sherlock back to the reality. When the older doctor opened the black bag, Sherlock paused.

The body was completely clean. Somebody's scrubbed it.

"Why did you wash the body?! How am I supposed to find any traces now?" He blurted, indignantly gesturing over the dead man. Doctor Sky seemed a little taken aback.

"This is a common procedure. I do it every time," he said confusedly.

Sherlock snorted and took the glove Molly was handing him. Then he walked around the body a few times, but he saw nothing new. He was intrigued by the needle puncture on one side of Nikolai's neck. Same as all the victims had.

"So you found pentobarbital in his blood? What else? "John asked.

Doctor Sky seemed to think about it. "Everything is in the autopsy report, but beside the pentobarbital I have found nothing suspicious. He was certainly tortured for some time - perhaps interrogated, judging by his injuries..."

"Really great help, Doctor," the detective murmured sarcastically, pulling out his little magnifier to better examine the bruises caused by someone's fingers on Nikolai's forearm. The bruise was yellowish and a little faded, so it had to be at least 5 days old. Someone grasped him firmly - someone with long, thin fingers and wide palms.

"I'm very sorry, Detective. I wish I had better news for you, really I do."

Sherlock glanced up and looked into the doctor's eyes. They were very penetrating, but he could not read anything from them. "So the cause of death was the same as of his other victims."

The doctor folded his arms and sighed. "This murder is basically exactly the same as-"

"Wrong!" Sherlock interrupted him sharply. "This murder is completely different, and I want to figure out why. Nikolai was an intelligent and capable manipulator, but he did not excel above any other criminal. Why would our killer even kidnap _him_? He obviously tortured him for information, but what kind of information?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Send me a complete autopsy report to my email. I won't find anything new here," Sherlock snapped, putting his magnifier back into his pocket. Then he turned sharply and walked out of the room.

"See you later Molly, Doctor," John stuttered, and followed his friend's quickly receding figure.

"Sherlock!" John called after him.

Ignoring him, Sherlock pulled the cell phone out of his coat pocket and quickly tapped the message and sent it to Lestrade.

 _Why did you assign a new pathologist to my case? SH_

It did not take long and the answer came.

 _I'm sorry Sherlock, it was beyond my authority. My superiors sent him there. I could not do anything. G. Lestrade_

His superiors? It was probably time to talk to his brother.

* * *

Mycroft sighed and with one click sent a very important email, then leaning back in his chair, reached for a cup of coffee and took a sip. Today was a hard day, and his little brother did not try to make it any easier for him - his eternal quest for Moriarty had distracted him from more important case. Mycroft knew that hiding Moriarty's survival from his brother would be a challenge. It's not like he didn't have any practice in that – he'd managed to conceal Euros for decades. Well, there was no need to remind himself how _that_ turned out. He would have to tell him about him in the future. Sooner rather than later.

As soon as they'd caught London's Phantom. Then he'd tell him the truth.

Mycroft rubbed his eyes and looked back at the screen of his laptop. There was still a lot of work ahead of him. There were also other much more important things to be dealt with.

London's Phantom was still at large, and it was only a matter of time when he would commit another murder. And his younger brother had his head full of Moriarty. He even saw him behind _this_ case. But Mycroft knew very well that he was not. No way.

They had been watching Jim for some time. Several different agents had been placed around his apartment a few weeks ago - yet it was almost impossible to catch sight of him - Jim was cunning. He probably knew the British secret service was watching him. Someone had to inform him about that. Older Holmes suspected that they had a spy among them, and they had been trying to detect him or her for weeks now. So far without result.

Holmes's superiors (yes, he really had some) wanted James dead. They intended to keep him alive only for as long as they considered him useful - better the devil you know - and then they would get rid of him. No paperwork would be required. Jim Moriarty, or Richard Brook, or who it was, would just disappear.

Yes, James Moriarty _was_ a problem. At present, not a very important one, but still a problem that would have to be resolved once. Mycroft agreed with this plan and had nothing against it. But still, getting rid of such a brilliant mind - and there was no doubt that Moriarty was brilliant - would be a pity.

The elder Holmes recalled an old memory of Euros and him trying to persuade the British Government that she would be useful to mankind. That it would be a pity to get rid of her.

Though Mycroft would never say that aloud - and if you asked him, he would deny it - James Moriarty reminded him of his brother. If he were born without any siblings. Alone. Well, Euros said that James had a younger brother, but that couldn't be confirmed. What if Sherlock grew up without friends, cut off from society - how would he end up? No one could deny that he was prone to illegal activities. And drugs – that was where they differed.

That's why he'd like to talk to James for the last time before they got rid of him. He wanted to see the world through his eyes. He wanted to understand him so he could better understand his brother.

James Moriarty would die. _It might take a year, it might take a day, but what was meant to be would always find its way_. And the time was coming, and when it came, Mycroft would be the one to give the order.

* * *

A young man wearing a hoodie and a thin jacket walked quickly through a narrow street. He kept his hands in his pockets, _protecting them_ from the biting _cold_ _._ His steps echoed from the walls that surrounded him. He was holding a half-smoked cigarette between his lips, which provided him some comfort, blowing smoke through his nose.

He passed a couple of homeless tents – the homeless people were staring at him suspiciously for a long time. But that was not his worry at the moment.

His supervisor - if he could call him that - had finally made contact with him. He had a meeting with him in five minutes in some old disgusting pub on the outskirts of the city.

And he was already late.

Subconsciously, he picked up the pace as he saw the old, cracked entrance to the pub. He opened the door - which creaked loudly - and as he stepped inside, a strong smell of beer, smoke and sweat hit him immediately. The air was hot and hazy. Predominantly older men in old withered clothing could be found in this place. Some of them were sitting around the bar and drinking. He quickly recognized the man he was to meet today among them. He was the only one wearing a rather expensive coat, and his polished shoes reflected a damp orange light from the ceiling bulb above.

He walked quickly to the man and, without a word, sat down on the bar stool beside him.

"The time has come," the man in the coat said, looking at the younger man peripherally. "The boss gave us the green light - now it's up to you."

"No money, no honey. Do you have my share of the filthy lucre?" The younger man quietly replied, and once more looked around at the drinkers.

The other grinned, "You'll get half of it now and the other half once the job is done," he paused for a moment and drank some bourbon from the glass he held in one hand. "That was the deal."

"I want to see it."

The older man smiled coldly and reached out for the briefcase at his feet. "Everything is here," he replied, petting it with one hand. "Believe me. I have no reason to trick you. After our meeting, you can take it with you and check it."

The younger man seemed to think for a while. He stared at the briefcase, trying to see through it and find out whether the other man was telling the truth. Then, without a word, he waved at the bartender and ordered whiskey.

"Yeah. Alright, "he gasped with a glass at his mouth, then poured all its contents down his throat. "Today, right?"

"He wants to have him there today. You wrote me it's not a problem," the eyes of the man in the coat gleamed dangerously. "It's not a problem, is it?"

"No. Not at all. Do you have the powder?" The younger man replied impatiently. The other one reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small transparent bag with whitish powder.

"Just half is enough but you can use it all. And again I repeat, _it mustn't, at any price_ be put into a scolding hot or boiling water - the substance can survive temperatures only below 80 degrees."

The younger man reached out and took the powder. He quickly put it in the back pocket of his jeans.

"Of course."

"We gave you this job just because you're a great actor, Peter. Neither Holmes nor Moriarty were able to see you though so far," the older man squinted, lifting himself out of his chair. He quickly gulped down the rest of his drink and looked at the younger man for the last time.

"Don't mess up – you know what happens if you do."

Then he threw a pair of banknotes on the bar and left without delay.

The younger man bent down and picked up the briefcase that was left there.

Now everything just had to go according to plan.

* * *

"Come on, move your sexy ass and bring me my Latte!"

The man in the front seat looked confusedly into the rear-view mirror and turned the keys to turn off the engine.

"Go tapa!" Jim exclaimed, clapping impatiently.

His driver quickly sprang from the front seat and ran down the sidewalk to the nearby café. Jim watched him for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the cell phone in his hand and read a newly arrived message. From Sebastian.

 _I hope you took the two bodyguards I've sent you._ _SM_

Jim rolled his eyes. Sebbie was so cute when he was worried.

The truth was that Jim did not like to take his bodyguards with him anywhere. He did not want to have them with him at home nor standing in front of his apartment or anywhere else. He only took them when he expected some problems. Like when he was visiting Sherrinford - he was almost certain Iceman would try to lock him there. Most of the time he just told his snipers to keep watch and that was usually enough.

He definitely did not want to suffer two gorillas with him in his car, especially when he was making stops for lunch and then for his favourite coffee, which he liked to drink after a tiring day.

He, at least, had respected one Sebastian's advice and that he should not walk unnecessarily around the streets. So he sent his driver with exact instructions to the cafeteria instead. It was a young man, he had not been working for him for very long – maybe Jim could try to train him a little bit.

While he was replying to a few other messages, he suddenly heard the front door open, and his driver got in with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Here you are, sir. Latte without sugar," the younger man said, handing the cup to his boss.

Jim took it silently and immediately took a sip and then froze.

"That coffee is warm. It's supposed to be hot. Should I throw it in your face and send you for a new one?" He snorted irritably. The driver in front of him uncomfortably shifted in the silence that followed.

"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Jim narrowed his eyes and took another sip.

"You'd better hope it won't. Your pretty face will not save you otherwise. We're going to my apartment. There's a pile of work I have to do," he said after a moment, looking out of the window without interest. The driver started the engine without further words and took off.

The passing landscape outside slowly began to blur. The colours were blending into each other and creating surreal images similar to those of Van Gogh. Jim watched it for a while, and when he turned questioningly towards his driver, he realized he was not able to focus on him. The image before his eyes kept moving and blurring.

"What the hell ..." he murmured incomprehensibly and blinked quickly. The driver still had not turned or responded in any way.

"Wait, wh-where are we going," Jim asked, slurring every word. His tongue felt like a death weight in his mouth and he began to have trouble keeping his eyes open. He blinked rapidly again and reached out to touch the shoulder of the man sitting behind the wheel in front of him. His arm felt ten times heavier.

"Peter!" He exclaimed angrily, but his voice sounded slightly panicked. He shook his shoulder lightly.

Slowly he felt his muscles weaken - the cup had fallen out of his hand and spilled into his lap. Jim was now _very_ glad that the drink was not hot but warm. His phone was laying forgotten on the seat beside him. At the last moment, he tried to pull the door handle - but it did not open, the door was locked.

Jim reached for his gun, not able to grasp it properly with his insensitive fingers.

"You swine!" he croaked for the last time before losing the fight with the unconsciousness. His eyes closed and his lifeless body slid down in the seat, now held in the vertical position only by the seat belts.

Peter glanced at the rear-view mirror, and when he saw the state of his boss, he smiled and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He stopped the car for a moment and reached out to the back seat for Jim's cell phone and threw it out of the window. He knew there was a tracking chip in it so that his people could find him in case he was kidnapped.

It was now up to him to deliver him to the doctor and then to act like a poor and inexperienced agent in front of Holmes and then the money would be his.

There was still a long way to go.


	6. Silent Observer

Chapter 5 - **Surprise**

Sherlock was a little hesitant when he reached to shake hands with the doctor. John introduced himself, allowing the detective to make a short deduction of this new person.

 _Man. Divorced / Single, about 55-60 years old, obviously upper class, passionately devoted to his job, very intelligent, cares about his appearance, confident, absent family, hiding something..._

A grinding sound of pulling the dead body out of the freezer box brought Sherlock back to the reality. When the older doctor opened the black bag, Sherlock paused.

The body was completely clean. Somebody's scrubbed it.

"Why did you wash the body?! How am I supposed to find any traces now?" He blurted, indignantly gesturing over the dead man. Doctor Sky seemed a little taken aback.

"This is a common procedure. I do it every time," he said confusedly.

Sherlock snorted and took the glove Molly was handing him. Then he walked around the body a few times, but he saw nothing new. He was intrigued by the needle puncture on one side of Nikolai's neck. Same as all the victims had.

"So you found pentobarbital in his blood? What else? "John asked.

Doctor Sky seemed to think about it. "Everything is in the autopsy report, but beside the pentobarbital I have found nothing suspicious. He was certainly tortured for some time - perhaps interrogated, judging by his injuries..."

"Really great help, Doctor," the detective murmured sarcastically, pulling out his little magnifier to better examine the bruises caused by someone's fingers on Nikolai's forearm. The bruise was yellowish and a little faded, so it had to be at least 5 days old. Someone grasped him firmly - someone with long, thin fingers and wide palms.

"I'm very sorry, Detective. I wish I had better news for you, really I do."

Sherlock glanced up and looked into the doctor's eyes. They were very penetrating, but he could not read anything from them. "So the cause of death was the same as of his other victims."

The doctor folded his arms and sighed. "This murder is basically exactly the same as-"

"Wrong!" Sherlock interrupted him sharply. "This murder is completely different, and I want to figure out why. Nikolai was an intelligent and capable manipulator, but he did not excel above any other criminal. Why would our killer even kidnap _him_? He obviously tortured him for information, but what kind of information?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Send me a complete autopsy report to my email. I won't find anything new here," Sherlock snapped, putting his magnifier back into his pocket. Then he turned sharply and walked out of the room.

"See you later Molly, Doctor," John stuttered, and followed his friend's quickly receding figure.

"Sherlock!" John called after him.

Ignoring him, Sherlock pulled the cell phone out of his coat pocket and quickly tapped the message and sent it to Lestrade.

 _Why did you assign a new pathologist to my case? SH_

It did not take long and the answer came.

 _I'm sorry Sherlock, it was beyond my authority. My superiors sent him there. I could not do anything. G. Lestrade_

His superiors? It was probably time to talk to his brother.

* * *

Mycroft sighed and with one click sent a very important email, then leaning back in his chair, reached for a cup of coffee and took a sip. Today was a hard day, and his little brother did not try to make it any easier for him - his eternal quest for Moriarty had distracted him from more important case. Mycroft knew that hiding Moriarty's survival from his brother would be a challenge. It's not like he didn't have any practice in that – he'd managed to conceal Euros for decades. Well, there was no need to remind himself how _that_ turned out. He would have to tell him about him in the future. Sooner rather than later.

As soon as they'd caught London's Phantom. Then he'd tell him the truth.

Mycroft rubbed his eyes and looked back at the screen of his laptop. There was still a lot of work ahead of him. There were also other much more important things to be dealt with.

London's Phantom was still at large, and it was only a matter of time when he would commit another murder. And his younger brother had his head full of Moriarty. He even saw him behind _this_ case. But Mycroft knew very well that he was not. No way.

They had been watching Jim for some time. Several different agents had been placed around his apartment a few weeks ago - yet it was almost impossible to catch sight of him - Jim was cunning. He probably knew the British secret service was watching him. Someone had to inform him about that. Older Holmes suspected that they had a spy among them, and they had been trying to detect him or her for weeks now. So far without result.

Holmes's superiors (yes, he really had some) wanted James dead. They intended to keep him alive only for as long as they considered him useful - better the devil you know - and then they would get rid of him. No paperwork would be required. Jim Moriarty, or Richard Brook, or who it was, would just disappear.

Yes, James Moriarty _was_ a problem. At present, not a very important one, but still a problem that would have to be resolved once. Mycroft agreed with this plan and had nothing against it. But still, getting rid of such a brilliant mind - and there was no doubt that Moriarty was brilliant - would be a pity.

The elder Holmes recalled an old memory of Euros and him trying to persuade the British Government that she would be useful to mankind. That it would be a pity to get rid of her.

Though Mycroft would never say that aloud - and if you asked him, he would deny it - James Moriarty reminded him of his brother. If he were born without any siblings. Alone. Well, Euros said that James had a younger brother, but that couldn't be confirmed. What if Sherlock grew up without friends, cut off from society - how would he end up? No one could deny that he was prone to illegal activities. And drugs – that was where they differed.

That's why he'd like to talk to James for the last time before they got rid of him. He wanted to see the world through his eyes. He wanted to understand him so he could better understand his brother.

James Moriarty would die. _It might take a year, it might take a day, but what was meant to be would always find its way_. And the time was coming, and when it came, Mycroft would be the one to give the order.

* * *

A young man wearing a hoodie and a thin jacket walked quickly through a narrow street. He kept his hands in his pockets, _protecting them_ from the biting _cold_ _._ His steps echoed from the walls that surrounded him. He was holding a half-smoked cigarette between his lips, which provided him some comfort, blowing smoke through his nose.

He passed a couple of homeless tents – the homeless people were staring at him suspiciously for a long time. But that was not his worry at the moment.

His supervisor - if he could call him that - had finally made contact with him. He had a meeting with him in five minutes in some old disgusting pub on the outskirts of the city.

And he was already late.

Subconsciously, he picked up the pace as he saw the old, cracked entrance to the pub. He opened the door - which creaked loudly - and as he stepped inside, a strong smell of beer, smoke and sweat hit him immediately. The air was hot and hazy. Predominantly older men in old withered clothing could be found in this place. Some of them were sitting around the bar and drinking. He quickly recognized the man he was to meet today among them. He was the only one wearing a rather expensive coat, and his polished shoes reflected a damp orange light from the ceiling bulb above.

He walked quickly to the man and, without a word, sat down on the bar stool beside him.

"The time has come," the man in the coat said, looking at the younger man peripherally. "The boss gave us the green light - now it's up to you."

"No money, no honey. Do you have my share of the filthy lucre?" The younger man quietly replied, and once more looked around at the drinkers.

The other grinned, "You'll get half of it now and the other half once the job is done," he paused for a moment and drank some bourbon from the glass he held in one hand. "That was the deal."

"I want to see it."

The older man smiled coldly and reached out for the briefcase at his feet. "Everything is here," he replied, petting it with one hand. "Believe me. I have no reason to trick you. After our meeting, you can take it with you and check it."

The younger man seemed to think for a while. He stared at the briefcase, trying to see through it and find out whether the other man was telling the truth. Then, without a word, he waved at the bartender and ordered whiskey.

"Yeah. Alright, "he gasped with a glass at his mouth, then poured all its contents down his throat. "Today, right?"

"He wants to have him there today. You wrote me it's not a problem," the eyes of the man in the coat gleamed dangerously. "It's not a problem, is it?"

"No. Not at all. Do you have the powder?" The younger man replied impatiently. The other one reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small transparent bag with whitish powder.

"Just half is enough but you can use it all. And again I repeat, _it mustn't, at any price_ be put into a scolding hot or boiling water - the substance can survive temperatures only below 80 degrees."

The younger man reached out and took the powder. He quickly put it in the back pocket of his jeans.

"Of course."

"We gave you this job just because you're a great actor, Peter. Neither Holmes nor Moriarty were able to see you though so far," the older man squinted, lifting himself out of his chair. He quickly gulped down the rest of his drink and looked at the younger man for the last time.

"Don't mess up – you know what happens if you do."

Then he threw a pair of banknotes on the bar and left without delay.

The younger man bent down and picked up the briefcase that was left there.

Now everything just had to go according to plan.

* * *

"Come on, move your sexy ass and bring me my Latte!"

The man in the front seat looked confusedly into the rear-view mirror and turned the keys to turn off the engine.

"Go tapa!" Jim exclaimed, clapping impatiently.

His driver quickly sprang from the front seat and ran down the sidewalk to the nearby café. Jim watched him for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the cell phone in his hand and read a newly arrived message. From Sebastian.

 _I hope you took the two bodyguards I've sent you._ _SM_

Jim rolled his eyes. Sebbie was so cute when he was worried.

The truth was that Jim did not like to take his bodyguards with him anywhere. He did not want to have them with him at home nor standing in front of his apartment or anywhere else. He only took them when he expected some problems. Like when he was visiting Sherrinford - he was almost certain Iceman would try to lock him there. Most of the time he just told his snipers to keep watch and that was usually enough.

He definitely did not want to suffer two gorillas with him in his car, especially when he was making stops for lunch and then for his favourite coffee, which he liked to drink after a tiring day.

He, at least, had respected one Sebastian's advice and that he should not walk unnecessarily around the streets. So he sent his driver with exact instructions to the cafeteria instead. It was a young man, he had not been working for him for very long – maybe Jim could try to train him a little bit.

While he was replying to a few other messages, he suddenly heard the front door open, and his driver got in with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Here you are, sir. Latte without sugar," the younger man said, handing the cup to his boss.

Jim took it silently and immediately took a sip and then froze.

"That coffee is warm. It's supposed to be hot. Should I throw it in your face and send you for a new one?" He snorted irritably. The driver in front of him uncomfortably shifted in the silence that followed.

"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Jim narrowed his eyes and took another sip.

"You'd better hope it won't. Your pretty face will not save you otherwise. We're going to my apartment. There's a pile of work I have to do," he said after a moment, looking out of the window without interest. The driver started the engine without further words and took off.

The passing landscape outside slowly began to blur. The colours were blending into each other and creating surreal images similar to those of Van Gogh. Jim watched it for a while, and when he turned questioningly towards his driver, he realized he was not able to focus on him. The image before his eyes kept moving and blurring.

"What the hell ..." he murmured incomprehensibly and blinked quickly. The driver still had not turned or responded in any way.

"Wait, wh-where are we going," Jim asked, slurring every word. His tongue felt like a death weight in his mouth and he began to have trouble keeping his eyes open. He blinked rapidly again and reached out to touch the shoulder of the man sitting behind the wheel in front of him. His arm felt ten times heavier.

"Peter!" He exclaimed angrily, but his voice sounded slightly panicked. He shook his shoulder lightly.

Slowly he felt his muscles weaken - the cup had fallen out of his hand and spilled into his lap. Jim was now _very_ glad that the drink was not hot but warm. His phone was laying forgotten on the seat beside him. At the last moment, he tried to pull the door handle - but it did not open, the door was locked.

Jim reached for his gun, not able to grasp it properly with his insensitive fingers.

"You swine!" he croaked for the last time before losing the fight with the unconsciousness. His eyes closed and his lifeless body slid down in the seat, now held in the vertical position only by the seat belts.

Peter glanced at the rear-view mirror, and when he saw the state of his boss, he smiled and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He stopped the car for a moment and reached out to the back seat for Jim's cell phone and threw it out of the window. He knew there was a tracking chip in it so that his people could find him in case he was kidnapped.

It was now up to him to deliver him to the doctor and then to act like a poor and inexperienced agent in front of Holmes and then the money would be his.

There was still a long way to go.


	7. Getting Started

Chapter 7 – **Getting Started**

Sebastian Moran tried not to panic. He tried to keep his thinking rational, because there was a simple explanation for everything. Nothing was a mystery.

But how do you explain where had disappeared the most dangerous man in Britain - perhaps all over the world - James Moriarty? Why was he not answering any text messages and picking up his phone?

At first, Sebastian had been reassuring himself that the boss had just wanted to rest, but after he had not heard from him in the morning and then during the rest of the day until the evening, and their clients had began to complain about the lack of communication, he decided to activate a tracking chip that, surprisingly, did not work.

Something was wrong. Something happened to Jim.

Sebastian called all possible agents and people who could have known something. He desperately avoided one particular contact - their only agent working in close proximity to Mycroft Holmes. Each contact was risky; there was always the possibility that the secret service was watching him, like most of their own staff. But after many futile phone calls, there was nothing else he could do but call his special encrypted number.

After the third ring, he picked up.

"Hello?" A rough male voice came from the other end.

"Hello, Stork. It's Tiger."

"Ah, of course," the other voice answered instantly. "Good to hear from you, Tiger. What'd you need?"

"I need to know everything Iceman knows about Magpie. Immediately - the highest level of secrecy," Sebastian said in a hard voice.

"He's known for some time he's alive. He is being watched by MI5. But I informed the boss about it recently-"

"I know. I need to know what's going on right _now_. Any new news about Magpie?" Sebastian's voice sounded slightly desperate. The other man was silent for a moment.

"There's been a little confusion since morning. Iceman, for some unknown reason, rages. No one knows why - he was interviewing a young agent in the morning. It may have some connection with _him_ , but I cannot be sure yet. I will try to find out more. Is something wrong? Does the boss want to talk to me?"

"He doesn't have time at the moment. Keep me posted," the sniper answered and hung up.

This didn't look good at all. _Where are you, Jim?_

* * *

Jim Moriarty tried not to panic. He tried to keep his thinking rational, for though he was now in the hands of a sadistic, psychotic serial killer-

Alright. Maybe it was not the best idea to remind himself of his current situation. He had to have faith that his agents would find him as soon as possible. Or Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock would find him, no fear. In the meantime, he would not let some crazy old-

"We'll start with a routine medical examination. Try to relax," the doctor's voice came from directly above him. He was holding a medical device in his hand - it looked like a strangely shaped magnifying glass with a small light. With one hand in the latex glove, he forced his eyelids open and flashed his light into his eye. Jim moaned and tried to move away, but his head was held stationary.

The doctor started speaking into some recorder. "Experiment No. 46 - Male, Caucasian, Irish, about 40 years old," the voice paused for a moment, and the light shifted to his other eye. "Medium brown eye colour."

The man in the white coat released his head and turned off the light. He immediately turned around and put the instrument back on the table. Jim tried blinking away the whitish spots floating in front of his eyes.

"Weigh-" the doctor said a moment later. He bent down and looked at the edge of the metal table. "65 kilograms."

Jim felt his strength slowly returning to his limbs and tried to release his left wrist. The second man continued his examination.

"Height: 173 cm, slim figure, pale skin," Dr Sky continued in a monotone voice. It sounded a bit like he was speaking his thoughts as they came to his mind. The handcuffs were firm and did not move at all. The older man disappeared from Jim's field of view for a moment.

"Hair colour,"

Another thing he felt was doctor's hand gripping at his hair. Jim groaned when a new pain exploded in his head. He felt the other man tugging his hair, inspecting them in detail.

"Dark brown – almost black."

The doctor paused as if thinking. "Typical black Irish - a beautiful exemplar." With that, he dropped Jim's head and moved toward the little table again.

The younger man finally found his voice. "May I ask the gentleman's name? Now that we know each other more intimately," he croaked. The doctor did not respond for a moment, but then he turned around and responded in a cold voice.

"Don't talk and open your mouth."

"You could at least buy me a drink before -" The doctor opened his mouth roughly, and placed two pieces of some rubber between his molars, which Jim could not spit out and which kept his jaw wide open. The doctor began to study his teeth.

"The teeth are relatively in good condition. The canines and the lateral incisors are unusually sharp - that and his comments will earn him muzzle in the future," the older man finished. Jim tried to laugh, but all that came out was a strangled grunt. The doctor frowned, and in a quick motion, pulled the pieces of rubber out of the mouth of the younger man. Jim flexed his jaw a few times to get rid of its momentary stiffness.

"Let's go to the next part - genital and rectal examination," the second man said dryly.

"Wow, already? I have not heard such a poetic euphemism for a long time. Are we shooting a _movie?_ Let me get into my role," Jim closed his eyes and for a moment it looked as though he tried to focus, then he slowly opened them and a smile slowly crept across his face, looking at the doctor, he whispered, "Go ahead, _Doctor,_ " he winked one eye at the man standing over him, then laughed loudly.

There was silence for a moment - neither man moved.

"Cole, bring a muzzle and a sedative. We got a troublemaker here," the doctor exclaimed aloud, moving to the nearby cabinet he pulled out a drawer full of syringes. He took a new needle and unpacked it. Jim was trying to watch him, but with the belt around his neck it was hard to turn his head.

"How did you know I'm into this BDSM? It's not exactly shibari, but we all do what we can, right? And the muzzle sounds just _delicious!_ I admit I'm a little masochist!" Jim smirked. The older man measured him with a cold glance while waiting for his assistant. Then he smiled coldly.

"You'll stop joking soon enough, Jimmy."

A young man in a white coat came into the room and, quickly, without a single word, handed the required items to the older man and immediately walked away. Jim did not even see his face.

The other man drew a clear liquid from the small ampule.

"Now this will probably sting a little bit..."

"God, I hope it _will_!"

* * *

"I've asked you not to come here without a notice," Mycroft drawled, stepping into his office slammed the door behind him and _went_ around _his desk_ _and_ sat down. His younger brother was sitting in front of his desk and, of course, his friend John Watson was right beside him.

He shot them an irritated glance, then sat down, straightened his tie and leaned against the back of his chair. "This is not a good time to talk, I'm busy."

"Is that the reason why you haven't sent me the files I asked for?" the younger Holmes asked nonchalantly.

"I said I would send them as soon as I could. I haven't had time yet," Mycroft snapped angrily. Then he rubbed his forehead. "I'll tell Anthea to send them to you as soon as possible."

Sherlock nodded without words.

"What's going on? Everyone here is running around like crazy," John asked, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the door.

"Nothing that you two should be interested in. Top secret. National-"

"National Security. You know, my dear little brother, this has never stopped me from figuring out what's going on. Rather on the contrary," Sherlock said with a smile.

Mycroft sighed. "Stay out of this, Sherlock, please."

"Well, I don't hear this often," his younger brother snorted.

John shifted in his chair. "What about that new pathologist - do you know who sent him there?" He asked.

"Oh, of course - Doctor Sky," Mycroft reached for a file lying on the table in front of him and opened it. "Apparently, he was sent there by the Council. According to his biography, he is a specialist in violent murders, his recent study on stab wounds, according to the Medical Association, is excellent - he seems to have quite a reputation in the medical world. He has even served in the army for eight years – you've never heard of him, Dr Watson?"

"No," John frowned. "That name means nothing to me."

"What do we know about him? Details - what about his family?" Sherlock continued.

Mycroft looked back at the file. He slowly turned a few pages and frowned. "Not much, surprisingly. His wife died of cancer - she was quite young. No children. No registered relatives."

Mycroft snapped the folder shut and threw it on the table. "Why do you want to know it? What does that have to do with those murders?"

"There is something a little off about him," Sherlock murmured. John looked at Mycroft.

"When did his wife die?"

"Almost ten years ago, but I do not know-" Mycroft started, but John roughly interrupted him.

"After his wife's death, he surely went to a therapist," John paused and swallowed. "Do you have any records of those sessions?"

Mycroft smirked. "As a doctor you know very well that all medical records are confidential-"

"Do you have them or not?" Sherlock _interjected roughly_. Mycroft paused for a moment, then leaned forward, opened the folder, pulled out a stack of papers and handed it to his brother.

"If anybody finds out I've given them to you," the older brother growled angrily. Sherlock got up, and with the papers in his hand he headed for the door.

"Thank you!" he said cheerfully walking through the door.

John jumped out of his chair and ran after him. They were walking quietly through the corridor and passing all sorts of agents and government workers. Everyone was obviously nervous and stressed. Something important had to happen.

"That was a good idea - the one with those medical records," Sherlock said quietly to John. The other man smiled sadly.

"I know what it is like," he said in a choked voice. "When your wife dies. And no one can deal with it alone. This is the easiest way. You just tell the psychiatrist everything. And the psychiatrist knows everything about you."

They both walked to the elevator, and with a permission they stepped in.

"Hopefully. The guy is just ... weird. Aren't you getting these weird vibes from him?"

John thought about it. "It seems like he's hiding something."

Sherlock smiled, looking at his friend from the corner of his eyes. "Exactly."

"I mean - why would they even assign a new pathologist? So suddenly. Do you think he has some connection to our murderer?"

"That's _exactly_ what I think."

Sherlock stood motionless beside his friend, watching the changing numbers on a small panel in front of him. The elevator stopped and they both stepped out.

"And I think we're getting close. Our killer panicked and sent this one _doctor,_ " Sherlock grimaced, "to erase any traces."

The two men _went out into_ the suddenly _cool air_ , waved down a passing taxi and got in.

* * *

Doctor Sky walked over to a small sink in a sparse bathroom. He noticed an approaching figure behind him in the mirror. Cole knocked on the open door - the doctor instantly nodded - and the other man quietly stepped in. Silence filled the bathroom, filled only with the sound of running water.

"The detective suspects something, doesn't he?" The older man said, breaking the silence.

Cole nodded. "He's really good - we're currently looking for all the information you requested."

The doctor watched the red blood slowly washing off his palms and mixing with the flowing water, and then finally disappearing down the drain.

"Maybe he could become a part of my research, what do you say, Cole?"

The man behind him smiled coldly.

* * *

 **Hello everyone!**

 **The next chapter will be a little bit delayed, because I'll be travelling... :D**

 **If you review I'll try to hurry up! :)**

 **Thanks for reading, I hope you still like it and see you next time! ;)**


	8. The School of Obedience

Chapter 8 - **The School of Obedience**

 _My name is Anthony Sky._ _All my life I was fascinated by the human body, biology and psychology._ _I have done_ _hundreds of secret experiments on patients during my medical practice which have proven to be inadequate and, at times, very risky._ _I want to learn about human physical and psychological abilities as much as possible - but this cannot be done without medical experiments which, in most people's opinion, are unethical._

 _That's why I started my new project called_ _The School of Obedience_ _._ _The aim of this project is to go beyond the physical and psychological abilities of my carefully selected subjects, to completely break and analyse their personality and then make a new person out of them._ _A puppet that would, without hesitation, fulfil all my orders._

 _Using carefully selected medical experiments and psychological torture, I have achieved incredible results with some individuals._ _Unfortunately, most of my experiments end in failure._

 _I firmly hope that my new subject will prove to be the first complete success and becomes a breakthrough in my research._

Experiment 46 (James Moriarty)

* * *

Jim woke up in panic. He was desperately trying to draw breath into his lungs, but it felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest, his head was spinning and the whole body screamed: _Oxygen!_

As he opened his eyes wide and looked ahead, his oxygen-deprived brain immediately recognized the person from the previous day - Dr Sky was standing above him, pinching his nose. Jim shook his head and the doctor let him go. There was a moment of silence, interrupted only by desperate raspy breaths, as Jim tried to breathe through his nose and calm his instinct to take a deep breath.

"It was about time," the other man said conversationally. Jim's eyes narrowed, his breath still laboured. It wouldn't be that bad if his mouth wasn't covered with a muzzle and a gag. His whole body was shaking with a fading adrenaline.

The doctor gave him a cold-eyed stare. "I was originally planning to do this while you were unconscious, but it wouldn't be fair to you if I was the only one enjoying it."

Jim continued staring at the man above him. The doctor was walking around the lab and preparing some medical tools.

"It might feel unpleasant for the first time, but I firmly believe you'll soon get used to it."

Jim tried desperately to lift his head to see what the older man was preparing on the table in front of him. After a moment, the doctor walked over to where Jim was lying strapped to the metal table, released one of his legs and pinned it to the edge of the table, the same thing he did with the other one, then turned around and took a small inflatable pad and put it under Jim's butt – the lower part of his body was now a little higher than the upper part, his legs slightly spread apart which gave the doctor an unrestricted view of his genitals. Jim jerked a little nervously - he knew the drugs in his bloodstream were slowing him down, not allowing him to move too much. He felt like a helpless rag doll.

"Take a deep breath now," Dr Sky whispered almost inaudibly, and then, without any further warning, inserted a nozzle of some thin tube into his anus. Jim yelped with surprise.

"Shush. Breathe slowly and try to relax, the more you fight, the more unpleasant it will be."

Jim tried to relax - he closed his eyes and counted to ten, but before he got to five, a warm fluid started filling his belly. His eyes widened in surprise, and yanked at _his bonds again_. The doctor frowned and squeezed the fluid bag hanging on a metal hanger. The growing pressure in his abdomen only intensified.

He closed his eyes firmly again, trying to count, but it did not take long and the pressure started to be really unpleasant, and then the first cramps came. Jim moaned with pain.

"I know it's uncomfortable," the doctor said with false regret. Jim continued to moan, breathing heavily. The older man reached out and started rubbing his bare stomach. The younger man was in such a pain that he didn't even notice.

"Just a little more - three litres, Jimmy. It's not that bad ... yet."

Jim felt a drop of sweat running down his forehead. He was breathing hard through his nose, trying to make himself relax. This wasn't the first time he underwent an enema.

"That was the last drop, now you'll hold it in for a while, and after I tell you, you're going to let it all out - do you understand?" The doctor stated, removing an empty fluid bag. Jim lay motionless, trying to calm down. Every now and then a cramp shot through his stomach, but he bravely tried to appear as if nothing was happening. He clenched his fists and waited.

The doctor was walking around the room, watching him and sometimes moving some other tools on the table. After some time, he walked over to the suffering Jim, and with a loud, false sigh took out the inflatable pad from under his back, and pulled out the tube.

"Now you can let it out– don't worry, there are built-in drains in the table, just like in the morgue tables – I had them in mind while constructing this one."

Jim knew the whole procedure was designed just to humiliate him, but the good doctor would have to try harder. There are not many things that could humiliate Jim - and even Mycroft made some effort. A grin flickered on his face, taking last deep breath, Jim relaxed all his muscles and released every last drop of the fluid he had in his gut. It felt amazing until the warm fluid began to gather around his calves and thighs. The doctor tsk-tsked and pulled out a shower hose - the same one the pathologists used on corpses in the morgue. But before he turned the water on, he noticed a big grin behind the muzzle Jim had on his face.

"Something's funny?" He asked, irritated.

Jim continued staring up at him, meeting doctor's eyes with a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. This guy wasn't an amateur, but sometimes he was acting like one.

Jim shifted his gaze to the hose held by the other man and raised his eyebrows, then glanced back at the doctor and winked lasciviously. He saw the other man's hand tighten on the handle of the shower head. Clenching his lips, the doctor turned on water that hit Jim directly in the stomach. The water was freezing. He also didn't forget to spray it on his face, which resulted in another coughing and feeling like drowning.

When the younger man was clean, the doctor turned off the shower, put it aside, and then positioned the shivering man into semi-sitting position. His movements were jerky and irritated. Finally, he pulled up a metal chair and sat down beside the table facing Jim.

"Now, I'm going to remove the muzzle, and I want you to stay silent and answer only direct questions. I'll give you something to eat - remember, I don't know when you will be fed again – that depends on your behaviour. I'm sure you must be hungry - there is no need to waste your energy fighting for the sake of some pride."

Jim nodded. Not that he had any desire to eat anything from this monster, but he could use the additional energy.

The older man carefully removed his muzzle. Jim immediately licked his cracked lips and worked his jaw again. Then he smiled at the doctor, who gave him a warning look.

As if on a call, the door burst open and a young tall man came in, carrying a tray with a bowl of some soup. He silently handed it over to the doctor, and quickly left the room.

Jim was pointedly not looking at the bowl, instead he kept looking straight into the blue eyes of his captor.

"You will open your mouth when the _spoon approaches_. You will eat in normal, civilised way, and I might even give you something to drink later. Do you understand? Answer!" The doctor snapped.

"Yes, master."

"Good," the older man muttered, reaching out toward Jim he loosened the belt around his neck which had been holding his head immobile. Then he picked up the first spoonful and gently offered it to Jim who swallowed a mouthful of not very strong vegetable broth and grimaced.

"Is something wrong?" The doctor asked caustically, picking up another spoonful.

Jim tried to look thoughtful. "Well, I'm no Gordon Ramsay, and I don't want to carp on this, really… but I think _a broth_ is supposed have some _taste_ , right?"

"You have no idea what I'm capable of, Jimmy," the doctor whispered dangerously. "I can't wait to see that fire in your eyes flicker and fade."

Jim grinned at him, and as soon as he caught a sight of the other man's hand from the corner of his eye, he shot out and bit into his fleshy palm. The doctor cried out, dropping the spoon, which landed directly on Jim's neck. Then, with constant swearing and screaming, the older man tried to free his hand from Jim's vicious grip. The criminal just clamped his jaws tighter, breaking the skin, and soon he could taste a hot blood pouring into his mouth.

"You fucking bastard!" The older man shouted, pinching Jim's nose firmly, until the younger man let go. Clutching his bleeding hand, he ran out of the room, leaving the other man alone in the lab.

Jim licked his lips, smiling widely. _Much better._

The doctor stumbled into the hallway, angrily mumbling under his moustache. _That little shit will pay for this!_ He burst into a small room where he found one of his assistants, who as soon as she saw him shot out of her chair and ran towards him, eyes widened in horror.

"Oh my God! What happened?" She asked incredulously, placing a clean cloth on the wound and applying firm pressure to stop the bleeding.

"Subject 46," the older man murmured. As soon as his assistant wiped most of the blood away from the wound, the doctor could see the outline of Jim's teeth, and anger darkened his eyes.

"Thirty lashes, after that I want him to be put in the Dark Room – throw him to our smallest cage so he cannot move. No water or food. Leave him there for exactly three days. Until then I don't want to hear about him."

The assistant merely nodded, disinfecting the doctor's still bleeding bite.

"It needs stitches," the younger woman murmured.

"I know!" Dr Sky retorted.

The room filled with deafening silence as the young assistant finished injecting the analgesic and threaded a needle, preparing to sew the doctor's deep wound.

"This one will be a challenge. He's a complicated case."

There was a faint flicker of a smile on her face. "Nothing you couldn't manage. He has a great potential. It's important not to give up," she fell silent for a moment. "Don't forget to wash your hand with clean water when I'm finished. And you'd better get a tetanus shot."

"All I have to do is infect his Memory Palace - find out _what_ it is, and how to _get there_ without him knowing. I have to weaken his body, his mind…Then I will completely destroy it and build _my own_ Palace inside his head. And his mind will be mine."

* * *

Sherlock studied the psychiatrist's notes of Doctor Sky's sessions. In addition to the typical notes like at what time did the session begin and what the topic of the conversation was, the psychiatrist had also written down some of his personal observations and assumptions.

They met only a few times, and then the sessions were cancelled on Mr Sky's request. Sherlock frowned, reading the first session. At first, it seemed that Sky _was_ actually mourning - he didn't want to talk that much, showed signs of depression, insomnia, and perhaps even some suicidal tendencies. However, the second session, which was held a week later, was completely different. According to the psychiatrist's records, a confident, composed man without any worries entered the room. He was _still_ talking about his wife, and how he missed her, and what they were doing together, what plans they had - but it seemed that whenever the therapist introduced the subject of his wife, Sky always somehow ended up talking about himself.

During the last session – there were four in total - the doctor had finished the last page with a short note: _Diagnosis - Psychopath; I recommend outpatient treatment and further psychiatric evaluation._ The rest of the page was blank.

Sally Donovan always claimed that _he_ was a psychopath. That was, however, far from the truth. Psychopaths are hard to identify; usually they're very charming, successful, have many friends, have a family, and then something snaps inside them and the fantasies become an urge, and they start to provoke conflicts, control, and sometimes hurt or murder other people. Their egocentric personality and the complete absence of empathy toward others make it impossible for them to see or feel what they are causing.

Jim Moriarty was one of those.

Sherlock sighed and handed over the notes to John, trying to get the criminal consultant out of his head.

"He's a pathological liar and a manipulator," John said suddenly, after a few minutes of silence. The younger man jumped up as he had forgotten that he was not alone in the apartment.

"He likes to talk about himself and his achievements, it seems to me that he doesn't truly care that someone close to him has died," John continued. Sherlock just stood quietly near the window, his head full of thoughts.

"He lacks empathy – simply doesn't feel the pain of others." _That sounds exactly like you, Jim_ \- Sherlock thought while listening to his friend.

"Psychopath," John concluded. "This Sky might be our murderer."

Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat.

"Yes. We need to find the psychiatrist and have a little chat with him - he might not have written there everything," the detective said as he walked over to a desk, opened his notebook and turned it on.

"What's his name - is it in the file?" He shouted over his shoulder while entering his password.

John flipped the file back to the first page. " _Her_ name. Helen Hartnett. The address isn't written here."

"Here I found it. Helen Hartnett lives in ... Scotland? A city called Inverness. That's hundreds of miles away."

"I should probably take a few days off at work, right?" John sighed with a smile.

* * *

Hello everyone!

Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter... I'm a terrible procrastinator :D  
I hope you liked this new chapter and thanks for all the favs and reviews! ;)  
See you next time!


	9. Greetings

Chapter 9 - **Greetings**

The last week was rough for Molly. It seemed like everyone in London had gone totally crazy for some reason, and they all started mass murdering each other – or at least that was the only possible reason why they brought her about five bodies to the morgue every day. They were mostly men, sometimes women - all of them were violent deaths.

That's why she had not stopped for past two weeks and just kept dissecting and looking into the microscope - her social life was non-existent. It had been a long time since Sherlock's last visit, he didn't write, nor did he answer her text messages. And Molly was rightly upset - Sherlock would always show up only when he needed something. At least she had someone to talk to now, and she hadn't had to talk to herself since the doctor Sky had come.

She heard the door slam and then approaching steps. _Speak of the devil..._

Molly glanced at the clock on the wall. It was Monday morning and Dr Sky was late again.

"Oh, hi, Miss Hooper," the older man greeted her as he stacked the papers and folders on the table.

"Good morning. Car problems again?"

Doctor Sky raised a hand and looked at his watch, "Bollocks! I'm late, am I not?" he laughed weakly.

Molly noticed his bandaged palm for the first time.

"Oh my God! What happened to you?"

The other man's face immediately darkened, "A dog bit me," he said through gritted teeth. Molly sensed that the doctor did not want to talk about it, so she just turned back to her microscope.

"How did you enjoy this weekend, Miss Hooper?" he asked after a moment. Molly jerked slightly, switching a sample from under the microscope.

"Mostly I worked," she answered. The doctor gave her a sympathetic sigh.

"And how is Detective Holmes? I haven't seen him for a long time."

"Sherlock is ... well. He's working too, I suppose," Molly snapped, leaning forward again she put her eye over the _microscope_.

"Oh, of course. London's Phantom - hot case. You don't happen to know how far has he gotten with it, do you?"

Molly added a solution to the sample, "I have no idea. And I won't know until _he_ comes and asks for a favour or something..."

The older doctor smiled faintly, putting on his latex gloves.

"So you couldn't tell me whether they already have any suspects..."

"Why do you ask?" the younger woman interrupted him. Sky's expression was unreadable as he gazed down at her.

"Professional interest. Nothing more. I thought you two were close..."

Molly nodded, her lips firmly set together, "He didn't seem to like you," she narrowed her eyes. "He lives at 221B Baker Street. You can try to visit him and ask about the case _yourself_ , but I don't promise he'll open the door. But not today- he's not at home right now, I'm afraid - he flew to Scotland because of the Phantom's case."

The Doctor nodded and smiled.

* * *

Inverness was a small, picturesque Scottish town. Sherlock hadn't been hoping that there would be an airport nearby, but fortunately there was one, so they were able to land with a private jet right outside the town. His brother was obviously really busy, otherwise he wouldn't have lend him the jet for a case – just thinking about all the paperwork and the money it must have cost. But apparently, Mycroft _really_ wanted this case closed as soon as possible, so he gave Sherlock literally everything he asked for.

They didn't plan to stay here for a long time and wanted to return to London the same day. That's why they immediately called a taxi to the airport and asked him to take them to the psychiatrist's address, which was fortunately written in Mycroft's file. It was a large family house with a fenced garden - Mrs Hartnett usually met with the patients at her home.

Sherlock hoped that if he pretended to be interested in her sessions, he wouldn't have any trouble to at least get inside the house and try to talk to the psychiatrist in private. John was not convinced – no wonder after his last experience.

Sherlock rang the bell and they both waited at the front gate. It did not take long, and a lean, perhaps forty-year-old woman came out of the house, walked toward the gate and swung it open.

"Good morning, Mrs Hartnett. Me and my friend-" Sherlock began, but was promptly interrupted by the woman standing in front of them.

"Quit the charade. I know very well who you are, detective," Hartnett opened the gate more widely and looked around.

"Come in, they already know you're here anyway," she allowed the two men to enter the garden.

John and Sherlock exchanged surprised glances and followed the psychiatrist into her house.

John closed the door behind him and the woman led them to the lounge where they both sat down. Dr Hartnett offered them tea and, after the cups were ready, she joined them.

"I know why you have come here and so does Anthony," she said and took a sip of her hot tea. Sherlock nodded and the woman continued.

"Anthony Sky - I guess I'll regret for the rest of my life that I took him into my care."

"What can you tell us about him? I read your records, but-"

"Oh, of course. Those records. Anthony knows about them, and that's the source of the problem," Helen sipped her tea again, "He wanted me to change them – he wanted them burned and destroyed. He blackmailed and threatened me after I told him the diagnosis. He didn't want the public to find out. I was hoping that maybe...well, it doesn't matter now."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean problem - did you have any suspicions?"

"Not at first - like every psychopath he is also a great actor and a liar. Later, however, he started to behave strangely – well, you know, you read the file. To cut a long story short, I'm almost _sure_ he somehow murdered his wife. It was not a cancer, nor a suicide - not quite."

"So you found out he killed his wife. You informed relevant authorities - and?" John interjected.

"Then he started following me - watching me. I'm sure I have a bug somewhere in the house." Helen laughed a little hysterically, the hand holding the cup of tea shaking, "Perhaps even hidden cameras, who knows."

Sherlock mused, "How did he kill her?"

Helen stared into the distance, "He didn't _kill_ her with his own hands – he pushed her to a suicide. He is a very experienced manipulator and she was apparently a very fragile woman. She was an introvert - often ill. And later he insisted that the cause of the death in the death certificate had to be cancer, not suicide. Probably because of a church, I'm not sure now." Mrs Hartnett shifted in her chair and set her cup on a table.

"I cannot tell you exactly how he did it - whether it was an impulsive decision, or if she had planned it a long time before."

"How come he hasn't lost his licence yet? With these accusations..." John frowned.

"He's an influential man - rich, he probably has some contacts," the detective murmured, pulling out his cell phone he began to write a message. After a moment of silence, he handed the phone over to the surprised doctor.

 _Do you think he would be able to murder other people?_ _Mutilate and torture them?_ _How long ago did you warn the medical association about his psychiatric condition?_

The psychiatrist took it from him and quickly typed an answer. She paused for a moment and then added something.

 _I have no doubt about that._ _It will be five years in June._ _Run detective, they're on the way._ _I'm so sorry_

Sherlock nodded and stood up, "It was a pleasure, Mrs Hartnett. Let's go, John."

John looked a little confused, but then he quickly finished his tea, stood up, and without further delay they both headed for the door.

"We have to contact Mycroft – Sky must be arrested!"

Sherlock nodded silently and began to dial his brother's number.

But as soon as they passed through the outside door, an unpleasant surprise awaited them right behind the gate.

"Greetings, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Jim was abruptly awakened by a bucket of cold water that somebody threw on his head. As the cold water ran down his face he resisted the temptation to lick his cracked lips and focused his gaze on the person standing over him – or rather over his miniature cage.

"Get up, Jimmy! _You've got a busy day in front of you_!" the man shouted. Jim had already seen him once - it was certainly the same guy that brought the doctor the muzzle and sedative back in the lab.

"Oh, we look so sad today," Cole sneered, unlocking the cage in which Jim was bound, and without any effort he pulled his limp body out and threw him roughly on the cold floor. Jim _saw black spots in front of his eyes_ , he felt sick and dizzy. His back was killing him. It was bloody and bruised from the whipping and every time he moved it was almost unbearable, so he remained lying on the surprisingly pleasantly cold concrete and tried not to move that much.

"Stay nice and calm and it will hurt less, trust me," a voice said somewhere above him, and then two strong hands rolled him over onto his stomach. An antiseptic smell filled his nostrils -that was the only warning before a burning pain erupted in his back. He yelped and tried to curl up in a ball.

"Don't move," one hand grabbed his neck and pressed his face against the ground.

The other man continued to disinfect his wounds – he was careless and rough, therefore Jim kept jerking back and forth, making the fingers around his neck tighten. After he was done, Cole pressed a bottle of water to his lips and let him drink his fill.

"Why didn't the great Dr Evil honour me with a visit himself?" Jim croaked in a small voice as Cole started removing the thick ropes wrapped around his ankles.

The other man just grinned and continued to take off Jim's handcuffs.

"Too busy with a dissection of some mathematician's brain that he had to send here a middle-aged metrosexual with false tan and thinning hair?" Jim pushed on.

Cole raised Jim up, and set him on his feet. His calves immediately started to cramp – which didn't help his wounded back.

"I'll miss this, actually" the doctor's assistant laughed, watching Jim bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath and massaging his cramping muscles. "That courage of yours."

The smaller man lifted his head to look him in the eyes and said in a very serious voice: "I bet you will. You'll fondly remember these moments when I was just joking."

Cole kept his gaze, "Well, you will not remember _anything_. We'll take care of that."

Jim just laughed hoarsely. Cole didn't hesitate and pulled him out the door and dragged him behind through a dimly lit corridor that resembled some underground concrete bunker.

"But now, seriously, what is this all about? Money don't interest you and I don't believe this research crap." Jim stared at the back of the other man as they walked down the corridor, occasionally passing a metal door.

"Come on, admit it – you're a sadist and you like torturing people. Right, agent Smith?"

Cole was silent. Jim rolled his eyes. Suddenly they turned to the left and walked through the fifth door - Jim was trying to make a mental map of the place, so far unsuccessfully - they entered a small room with only one bed with straps and some strange device standing right beside the bed.

Electroshock _therapy_.

"What do you think you will achieve? Nobody has ever gotten into my mind – what do you even expect to find in there?"

Cole, strapping Jim to the uncomfortable bed, interrupted him coldly, "But you still don't understand, Jimmy. We don't _look for_ anything. We don't _take_ anything. We on the contrary _give a lot_."

Jim raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You have to understand that our goal is _not_ to completely erase your mind or to _find_ something. The goal of this project is _to give_ your life a new meaning. It's like a program - or rather a virus – that, once it's triggered, will completely take over your mind. When you get out of here, you won't remember that someone has ever programmed you. You won't remember what happened here at all. You'll be waiting for our signal. You're going to be his puppet, Jimmy, you will fulfil his every command without hesitation. I just don't understand why _you_ haven't taken over the government yet - with your position and resources. You could literally rule the world – If you only wanted to." Cole tightened the last strap around Jim's ankle, "And _we want to_."

Jim couldn't hold it any longer and burst out laughing. "God, I really feel like I'm in a movie. Except that this time I'm _not_ the villain, but an innocent victim. How should I react now?" Jim's eyes widened and in a faint, desperate voice he began to shout: "No! Please! Don't take my free will!" And then he laughed again.

In the meantime Cole had prepared the instrument and was standing over him, holding the electrodes in both hands ready to place them on Jim's temples.

"There are no villains - there is nothing like good people or bad people. There is no evil and no good. Everyone and everything is a combination of both," he said, standing motionless over the bed, probably expecting a reaction.

"It doesn't change anything, Aristotle - nobody gets in my head. And this electroconvulsive _therapy_ is totally useless. You will not achieve anything."

Cole snorted, "That's possible. But what I can say -" he pressed the electrodes to Jim's temples and looked him in the eyes.

"I'm a sadist and I like torturing people."

Jim's body jerked around in radical, spasmodic movements as the electric current flowed through his brain. His mouth filled with hot frothed blood. His last coherent thought was:

 _The fucker didn't give me any gum to bite on - and I bit through my tongue._

* * *

 **Hello! Thank you very much for the reviews and everything! Sorry it takes me so long to upload a new chapter, but I'm very busy at school right now (exams, essays and stuff...) :P**

 **Let me know if you enjoyed this chapter or if you have any ideas how it should continue! :)**


	10. My name is James

**Chapter 10** \- My name is James

 _Take care of all your memories._ _For_ _you cannot relive them._

"Greetings, Sherlock Holmes," the older woman in a grey coat said, standing in front of a large unmarked van parked on the driveway in front of the house.

John drew his weapon without hesitation and pointed it at the woman behind the gate. She didn't even look surprised. Sherlock was also completely calm - he closed the dial and lowered his arm.

"Good Morning," Sherlock said in a strong voice. The older woman glanced briefly at John - at the barrel of his gun, and sighed.

"I believe that wecan avoid any unnecessary accidents," she said in a squeaky voice with a strong Scottish accent, "if you cooperate."

John glanced sideways at his friend, but his face was unreadable.

"I'm sure Sky wouldn't hurt a fly," Sherlock replied sarcastically. The woman just laughed humourlessly. John stayed in his position, holding his trigger finger at the ready.

"Sherlock?" John whispered nervously, still unsure of what was going on here.

"You are really good, Detective," the woman took a few steps toward both men and stopped just behind the gate, "unfortunately, too good for your own good."

Sherlock kept silent and waved his left hand, signalling John to lower the gun.

"I also know you are very intelligent. So now you'll both get into this van that's behind me - nicely and calmly - and nothing will happen to you."

John sneered, "And who are _you_ to tell us what we should do? Sky's maid?" His eyes flew to the parked van and back to the woman in front of him, "Where is the van going to take us and why should we listen to you anyway?"

"Get in, I won't ask again."

"If Dr Sky wants to talk to us so much why won't he come in person?" Sherlock asked caustically.

The older woman sighed and responded with a tone as if talking to a small child: "Doctor Sky is busy. He's a doctor - he's doing his job."

John raised his gun again and was about to say something, but before he could open his mouth something sharp hit his neck. _Tranquilizer dart –_ flew through his head before he fell limply to the ground.

"John!" Sherlock cried out, and made a step toward the older man who was lying motionless on the ground.

"Don't move," the woman ordered sharply.

Sherlock checked his friend's breathing. After he made sure he was unhurt, raising his head he squinted at the woman in front of him. She just waved her hand, gesturing toward the van. Sherlock knew she'd laid backup that was almost certain. The wisest thing at this time was to do exactly what she wanted. Therefore, he reluctantly stepped forward, opened the gate and walked out.

"Your friend will be alright - he'll sleep a little and then he might have some headache but that's it. I believe that we won't have to use the same methods on you, if I'm not mistaken?" She smiled sweetly as Sherlock passed her on his way to the waiting car. Then she extended her hand, palm upright and said coldly: "Give me your cell phone."

Sherlock did so. Then he stepped into the van where one of Sky's henchmen was waiting who skilfully tied his hands and ankles. Two other men jumped out and dragged John in. They tied him up as well, gagged both of them and then they searched them quickly – took John's cell phone, keys, their wallets and of course John's gun.

Without hesitation, they slammed the door of the van, leaving them both in the darkness without any windows or lights. Sherlock heard the driver start the engine and felt the car moving. Perhaps for the first time in his life he hoped his paranoid brother had placed some unfound tracking device on him - but the chances were small. _What now?_ Sherlock looked desperately into the darkness where he knew his friend was lying.

John was still unconscious - _and vulnerable, I cannot take any chances with him like this._

* * *

Jim woke up in the morning-at least he thought it was in the morning, there was no way to tell - and he couldn't remember his name.

It just wasn't there.

He spent perhaps a few hours after he woke up trying to recall at least the first letter of his name. How his mother called him to eat, how his father yelled at him when he'd fought at school.

But there was nothing.

And then he tried to remember other people from his past - his father, his brother ... the ... the first boy he murdered. And even though he could perfectly recall every detail of their faces, the tone of their voices, eye colour, teeth shape, dressing style ... he just could not assign a name to any of these people.

Jim broke into a cold sweat, became dizzy and felt his heart racing. For one petrifying moment, he sat in his cell, staring at the wall, trying to breathe regularly and not to let anyone watching him know how he felt. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the palm of a hand - the tips of his fingers found two painful burned marks on the sides of his head. And he got a flashback.

 _Electroconvulsive therapy. Electroshocks! Every single day since - as ... as long as he's been here._

How could he just forget?

A nasogastric tube had been attached to his nose – of course, he refused to eat, they had been feeding him via a feeding tube. Then he ran his hands over his face. Someone had shaved him recently – with an electric shaver.

Jim still held his head high. _Still unbroken._ He slowly hugged his chest, feeling his protruding ribs under his fingers.

 _How long has he been here? A week? Two? A month?_

The time seemed to stop. Stuck.

A fury rose in Jim for every missing memory. _How does someone dare to mess around in my head? Stealing memories?!_

 _No one has ever gotten into my Mind Palace! No one!_ Only he himself had access to it.

Jim inhaled and relaxed- he would go to his palace and find these lost memories. They must be somewhere in there. It did not take him long to get to his Mind Palace which was their old family house in Ireland. He walked through the creaky front door and looked around. It was empty.

He decided to go to his room where he stored all the important documents he just could not afford to forget. Many of them had to be signed by him. He searched in the first file and pulled out a couple of months old contract that he had signed together with someone from North Korea. And right there at the bottom of the page was a box with his name and signature.

 _My name is James._

Jim was relieved. _That's right, that's my name_. But then he paused.

 _Moriarty._

 _That's not my name,_ flashed through his head. It sounded so alien - it was definitely not his surname. Not really.

 _What is my name?!_

Before he was able to look into other files and check other pages, Jim was suddenly jerked back to reality. He heard someone's footsteps behind the door. He had just a few seconds to try to calm down his quick breathing and his speeding heart. His head was spinning, he felt like throwing up, but he couldn't let anyone know he had been affected by those sessions. That was the most important thing – _not to_ _show any weakness!_

Cole entered his cell, wearing a broad smile and carrying a pair of handcuffs in one hand and some kind of a stun baton in the other.

"Well, well, well! Look who's finally awake and coherent. I'm glad this time I won't be the only one enjoying our today's session - _again_ ," he grinned, walking towards Jim.

Jim frowned and tried to respond, but he just couldn't get any sound out - as if something was blocking his throat.

Cole's malicious eyes flashed devilishly, "No flippant remark today? Maybe we'll eventually teach you how to behave, you – the great Moriarty!" the younger man laughed, grabbing Jim by the collar and pulling him to his feet, setting off explosions of searing pain in the smaller man's wounded back.

Jim's stomach clenched, but on the outside he only smirked complacently, maintaining his dignity he walked down the long grey corridor to his torture.

He was already breaking. His mind was falling apart. _My name is James ... and?_

 _Sebbie, Sherlock, John, Mycroft!_ _Someone!_ _It should have never come this far._ _Move your lazy ass and get me out of here!_

And quickly.

* * *

Sebastian was beginning to get very nervous. Their agent "Stork" secretly working in Holmes' proximity had not reported for three weeks and there was still no trace of Jim.

It was like that until yesterday when he suddenly got a message that a man, according to the description looking exactly like Jim's recently lost driver, had been interrogated and then released.

The only clue that could possibly lead him to his boss was the last person Jim talked to.

Peter Simmons.

Sebastian had to admit that the boy was quite good at hiding - it wasn't at all easy to find him. Even though he'd changed his name and moved to the London's suburbs, he still remained pretty findable.

He definitively had a finger in the pie, or at least he knew what had happened, but then again, Mycroft had interrogated him once and hadn't learned anything.

 _Well, it's not like Mycroft knows how to properly interrogate someone,_ Moran sneered.

Unlike him, Sebastian knew very well how it's done. After he had found Simmons hiding in one of his friend's apartment, he jumped him, knocked him unconscious and took him to an old abandoned factory that stood nearby and was destined for demolition. He tied him to a chair with strong ropes and after some thinking, he decided to blindfold him.

He sat on a chair positioned in front of his captive, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees -waiting.

It didn't take long and Peter began to regain consciousness. His fingers twitched and he moaned, waking himself up completely.

"Hello? Is anyone here? Where am I?" he asked in a shaking voice. Sebastian rose silently from his chair, which made a horrid scraping noise on the concrete floor and walked over to the tied up man.

He bent over and whispered in his ear: "I have questions, you have answers. Think of it as a deal. Now, I'll ask you a few things and if you answer me truthfully - nothing will happen to you. I'll let you go."

Peter swallowed and nodded quickly.

"But if you even _think of_ withholding some information, then I promise you'll see the face of Hell today."

Sebastian grabbed him roughly by the hair, tilting his head back. Peter yelped in pain.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes - yeah, my God! I'll tell you everything!" Simmons yelled. Sebastian let go of him and went back to his chair.

"Right then, let's start with basics – your name is Peter Simmons and you had worked for about two months as a driver for a man named James Moriarty. Is that true? Nod your head if yes,"

Peter nodded slowly and Seb continued.

"You were the last one to talk to him before he was kidnapped. You've gotta admit, Pete, that's damn suspicious. And then you just disappeared," Sebastian tut-tutted in disagreement, "Bad idea."

"I-I drove him home from the office, he got out, went to his house and after that I left. That's all, I swear! I don't know anything!" Peter cried. Sebastian sighed loudly, got up and walked over to his car parked nearby where he had been heating up his in-car cigarette lighter. With one movement, he pulled it out and moved toward the tied up man.

"I'll ask you again - only because I'm in a good mood - where did you take him, because it was not to his house."

"I didn't - aaaaaaah!" Peter screamed in pain as Sebastian pressed the cigarette lighter to his neck. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Moran grabbed the sobbing man by the hair, pressed his face close to his again and whispered in his ear.

"Do you remember our deal? Because - boy - this is just me warming up."

"I-I took him to some underground garage. I don't remember the name-aaah! Fuck!" Simmons screamed again as Sebastian pressed the hot metal to his exposed skin. Peter's tears flowed from his eyes.

"It was somewhere near Kentish Town, I handed him over to some guys," the younger man sobbed.

Sebastian frowned, _"Who_ did you hand him over?"

"Some guy. I don't know his real name - we used nicknames. He was such a tall guy with a black-aah! Shit, aah!"

"I want names, Peter. I want facts."

"He called himself Azrael. He told me that if I brought him boss' unconscious body – unharmed - he would pay me three hundred thousand quid," Peter replied shakily.

"Have I already told you how I used to go hunting with my dad and uncle? I liked to disembowel the animals. I like seeing blood, Pete. I miss it so much," Sebastian said in a soft voice.

"That's everything, God, I swear! They gave me some powder I had to give him to make him sleep," Peter paused and took a few unsteady breaths, "I put it in his coffee, he fell asleep and then I handed him over to them - I don't know anything else!" he shouted a little hysterically.

Sebastian nodded his head, even though the other man could not see it. Then he went over to his car to return the lighter.

"Why were you interrogated by Mycroft Holmes three weeks ago?"

There was silence for a moment. "I don't know any Holmes."

Moran laughed out loud. _I just love these stubborn weaklings!_ Then he drew a knife from his coat pocket and, without warning, pierced Peter's palm. The knife got stuck in the wood, and dark red blood poured out of the wound. It took the other man several seconds, if not minutes, before he stopped screaming and cursing and was able to speak.

"I was spying for him, he wanted information..." Pete groaned, "He wanted to know about Moriarty. But I did not tell him anything."

"Wow, a triple agent! Who would've thought it?"

The younger man swallowed dryly. His sallow, sweaty skin indicated he was slowly going into shock - Sebastian had to hurry.

"Describe me exactly what Azrael looked like. I suppose it had to be him who contacted you."

Peter nodded, "A tall, pale, lean man, dark hair and eyes, well-dressed, high cheekbones, had a birthmark under his left eye."

"Why haven't you left the country? You could have flown anywhere with so much money."

Peter clenched his teeth, "The banknotes were fake! Counterfeit money! Kill him if you find him, fucker!"

Sebastian grinned, "Some deals just don't go your way, but I guess that's a business risk."

Then, without further delay, he pulled out his pistol and shot Peter in his head, got into his car and drove to one of the big garages in Kentish Town. He had a pretty good idea which one it was.

* * *

Doctor Sky was standing at the intersection when his assistant called him.

"Doctor Sky, subject 46 is ready for implantation," a quiet voice said on the phone.

Sky smiled, "I assume you were playing him subliminal messages while he slept?"

"As you wished. His mind is almost completely open."

"Great. I suppose he's not aware of it?"

"He doesn't seem to be," the younger man replied.

"I will arrive as soon as possible," the doctor paused for a moment, "Two more projects will arrive today. Put them in the cells and do nothing until I come, is that clear?"

"Of course."

"I feel like this is going to be another success!"

* * *

 **Hello everyone ;)**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter, tell me what you think!**  
 **Chapter 11 will be crucial.**  
 **See you next time! :))**


	11. Complicated

**Chapter 11** \- (Complicated)

It's getting tangled up.

"Damn, Sherlock, pick up the phone!" Mycroft mumbled, nervously pacing back and forth in his poorly lit grey office. The phone rang once, and then went silent - a missed call from his brother.

That was more than suspicious.

And what was even stranger? For the last quarter-hour, Mycroft tried to call his phone back, but each time it went directly to Sherlock's voicemail. The cell phone had to be switched off. He even attempted to activate the tiny GPS chip hidden inside the phone, but it was unsuccessful. The chip was probably irreversibly damaged.

The older Holmes struggled to remain calm. Maybe it's nothing, maybe the cell just got lost, and maybe he managed to break it somehow ... more like destroyed it completely.

And John did the same apparently. What a coincidence!

There are no coincidences.

That's why a little while ago, he decided to contact his secret unit in Scotland near Inverness and ordered an intervention in Mrs Hartnett's house. It should be in place within a few minutes. Meanwhile, Mycroft tried to call his brother. Sherlock, please!

The voicemail - again.

"We are in position, I'm waiting for orders," a voice in his second ear said suddenly.

"Search the house, the garden, then I want you to search the perimeter within ten kilometres of the parcel," Holmes replied sharply, and after a moment of silence, he added, "After that I want you to send there an investigative team and provide them with all the evidence you find, and also, I want to interrogate Mrs Hartnett personally. Get her here as soon as possible."

"Yes sir."

Mycroft cut off the connection and sighed deeply. Somewhere in the back of his mind a little ball of doubts, fears and uncertainties began to grow. He tried to ignore it, but whenever his attention turned to some other activity, the ball grew and expanded, reminding him that it was not going anywhere.

Something happened to Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock glanced around, swearing again. How could he overlook all the clues, how could he be so negligent, so hasty – he's had his strong doubts about their new pathologist from the beginning. Sky had a strange vibe, his whole behaviour was a bit off – as if it was just an act.

Then, perhaps, he would not end up in a cell deep underground somewhere in Scotland. And if his weakened senses were accurate, they were now on some island. Where? He had absolutely no idea.

John was laying on the ground beside him, still unconscious. In addition, they kept him blindfolded for the entire duration of the ride here and also put sound dampening headphones on his ears which meant he could hear nothing.

He had no idea what Sky was planning to do with them, but he knew it would not be pleasant.

He stared at the sharp ceiling light and listened. Here and there he heard people walking in the corridor behind the door. Depending on the type of walk, he guessed that there were at least two different guards patrolling the hall regularly.

His gaze fell on an electronic lock at the door of their cage / cell. There was no chance to override the device - at least not until he got the finger of the bastard who had locked them here.

John moaned, and Sherlock was immediately at his side.

"Where-what-what happened ... Sherlock!" He muttered in confusion, trying to get up from the ground. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and helped him to sit, trying not to jostle him too much.

"Shush. It's alright, John. You just slept a bit," Sherlock smiled faintly.

"Where are we ... what…? I slept ... what-"

"You missed a car ride, a cruise ship and some very funny remarks of our escort-"

John looked around confusedly, then moaned again, putting his head in hands, fingers clenching in his greying hair.

"That bastard!" He spat.

Sherlock snorted and sat down beside his friend. John lifted his head and looked slowly around the room. It seemed as if one half served for some laboratory or experimental purposes, and the other - where they were at the moment - was some kind of a cell or cage, apparently intended to hold people and not animals, and John did not even want to think about it.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

"Are you all right?" the younger Holmes asked quietly.

"My head is throbbing and my knee hurts a lot, but otherwise I'm fine. Do you know where we are?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated.

"We went northeast, to the coast –I remember hearing the cry of seagulls. Then they blindfolded me and put some headphones over my ears. We sailed on a ship for some time and then went into a building and rode down in an elevator ... many floors. We must be very deep underground. I suppose there is a whole complex of different rooms with all kinds of equipment and laboratories. He probably conducts his disgusting experiments in here."

A door across from their cell opened and Dr Sky entered.

"Bravo, Sherlock Holmes. What an excellent deduction," he said caustically, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

His assistant Cole followed closely behind him like a tail. Sherlock stood up and walked closer to the bars that separated them from their jailer.

"What a beautiful sight. I've been waiting for quite a while to see you in here," the doctor spread his hands wide with a smug smile and added," Welcome to my humble abode!"

Sherlock frowned, but stayed silent. John stood beside him, clenching his fists.

Doctor Sky chuckled deep in his throat.

"What's the matter? Has the cat got your tongue?"

Sherlock also laughed and began pacing around the small space of his cell.

"Underlings bore me," he said dryly after a moment of silence. Sky looked surprised for a split second, and so did the lackey by his side.

"What underlings? Boy, I think you probably do not understand the severity of the situation, but you don't have to worry about it, most of the newcomers -" Sherlock interrupted him before he could finish the sentence.

"Bring him in - I'll only talk to him. And alone."

Sky exchanged a quick, confused glance with Cole, then moved closer to the cell, staring deep into Sherlock's eyes, trying to find something in them. John fidgeted uncomfortably, watching the man in the white cloak approaching the bars like a giant white moth.

"Oh yes ... YES! You will see him soon. But first I'd like to talk to you. And your little friend, of course."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I want to talk to him now. Bring him in!"

Cole grinned. "Didn't you hear the doctor? You can wait."

"Moriarty, if you can hear me, come here and talk to me face to face!" Sherlock yelled loudly in the silence of the white room, his gaze clinging to the only camera in the corner pointed directly at him and John.

A faint smile crossed Doctor's face and faded quickly. He nodded to Cole, and without a word, the younger man opened the heavy door and dashed out into the corridor beyond, disappearing into the darkness of the subterranean bunker complex.

"I knew you were involved in those murders," John said with suppressed fury.

"Did you? Well, who is on the wrong side of the bars now?" The older man asked mockingly, moving back into the middle of the room somewhere between the laboratory equipment and the cell. He appeared pensive.

Sherlock wondered. Filled with anticipation, his thoughts flittered through his mind and he could not focus on the present moment – Moriarty was really alive. All of this was some kind of an ingenious sophisticated plan of his in order to get him to Scotland so he could play with him like a cat with a mouse. But what was the point of all the murders? Did Moriarty hire this "Doctor" as someone who would torture and murder top-ranked people of the underworld so that Moriarty had a smoother path to success in the criminal world? Could there be an ulterior motive behind all this? Perhaps some real disgusting research – a sickening collaboration of two psychopaths -

His thought were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was sitting behind his desk in somewhat dim office, reading reports from an overseas missions. With a trembling hand he picked his cup of tea and lifted it to his lips, drinking deeply. He sighed, putting the cup back on the table. Carefully, he raised the same hand and watched his fingers trembling. It was almost five o'clock, and there was still no trace of Sherlock or John.

His phone began to ring. He almost tipped the desk over as he dived after the small shiny device just to experience disappointment. The display showed the number of one of his secret agents. Not the number of his missing brother.

"Holmes. Do you have some news for me?"

"I do, sir. We received an information half an hour ago that one of our former agents - Peter Simmons – has been found dead in an underground garage on the outskirts of the city. He was shot in the head. Also, his body bears marks of torture," the agent said seriously at the other end of the line.

This was becoming more and more complicated. "Is he another victim of the London Phantom then?"

"I do not think so," the agent paused for a moment, "he was strapped to the chair when they found him, his wounds seemed fresh. They had to hurt him just before his death. I'd say that someone interrogated him and then killed him."

Mycroft frowned. That meant Moriarty's people were involved.

"I want a full report tomorrow on my table, with all the details, is that clear? Take him to the morgue at St. Bartholomew - I'll arrange for someone to take care of the body immediately," Holmes replied sharply and hung up, not waiting for his reply.

If it turned out that Moriarty had anything to do with the disappearance of his brother, he would never forgive himself. Trying not to think about Sherlock, Mycroft dialled a number on his phone which was answered immediately.

"St. Bartholomew Hospital, Department of Pathology, Doctor Hooper-" Molly said from the other end, but before she managed to introduce herself, Mycroft cut her off.

"A young man's body with a headshot will be brought to the morgue. I want you to take care of it. If Doctor Sky-"

Now it was her turn to interrupt him. "Doctor Sky is not here today."

Mycroft paused. "What? And where is he?"

"He did not come to the hospital this morning. I thought he would come later, just like every day-"

"Examine that body and send me the autopsy report as soon as possible."

The older man hung up and threw his cell phone back on the table.

There was only one logical conclusion available - Moriarty was working with Sky, and now they were holding Sherlock and John somewhere. Or burying their bodies.

No, silence! Mycroft told his brain to shut up.

They are alive and I will find them.

* * *

Jim had not expected another therapy session today, or whatever he was undergoing here. That's why he was unpleasantly surprised to see Cole for a second time this day, wearing an ugly grin on his too skinny face. He winced slightly at the thought of another torture. He would rather sleep a little. Thank you.

"Did you miss me?" Jim smirked a little and with a small groan unconsciously straightened up in the presence of the other man, carefully leaning against a wall.

"Did I miss you?" Cole laughed, "I miss you day and night, Jimmy!"

Then he slowly walked to the other side of the room where Jim was sitting. With a wicked look in his eyes, he grabbed him and yanked him to his feet, twisted his hands behind his back and handcuffed him with plastic cuffs. The younger man felt the stiff plastic ties cutting deep into his skin, limiting the blood flow and making his fingers feel tingly and numb.

"And apparently I'm not the only one who missed you," Cole whispered quietly into Jim's ear as he led him through the door and into the hallway.

Jim was grinning internally. And one would think one lesson would be enough for the good Doctor.

They both walked down a narrow grey corridor, illuminated by a line of sharp fluorescent tubes. They were passing one massive door after another, before they stopped. In front of the seventh door on the left to be accurate.

Cole scanned his palm, and then the door opened automatically.

And Jim's brown eyes met Sherlock's blue.

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed and I'm sorry it took me so long to update. Do let me know in the comments what you think about this chapter. ;)


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